Right Side of Justice
by Bill-the-Pony
Summary: Updated: Chapter 12 Galadriel spoke of a change back when the Trees still moved. That was many a year in the past but as the century where men are called 'cowboys' rolls to count, Legolas has yet a role to play in the history of this new age.
1. Reasons to Act

_Disclaimer: None of the familiar characters, places, or features belong to me. They are the brain children of Master Tolkien and owned by his enterprises and or New Line Cinema.  
  
Last Edited: 1-10-04_**  
  
Right Side of Justice  
**_Prologue_  
  
_"I amar prestar aen, han mathon ne nen, han mathon ne chae a han moston ned 'wilith."  
  
_"The World is changed; I can feel it in the water, I can feel it in the earth, I can smell it in the air."_  
  
_Galadriel's words remained true. Her wisdom rang clear and untainted through rock and age. She had spoken of a different period of change, but now the wheel rolled ponderously again. The world was changed and with it its peoples, lands, and waters. Even those that remembered the goings on of the old world were changed with the turning of tides and rising of mountains. Dagor Dagorath had been the epilogue of Middle-earth's long and colorful tale, but had been only the prologue of a new and equally colorful age that was the dawn of Man's time.   
  


But as it were, some of the Firstborn did not remain in what eternal land was offered as harbor to them at the end of their world; and with the coming of the new, some wished to greet it, to nurture it - or were simply called by a higher purpose to sail for a different life as friend and family departed to an equally unknown, but anticipated shore.   
  
Or were they, those that stayed upon the new soil that was still damp from creation, the ones that stepped forward?  
  
History would weave itself as it always did for age upon age, but this time the Elves would nare be mentioned in its making - though they were very much involved...  
  
  
**Chapter 1 - Reasons to Act  
**  
It was an untamed land where only the hardy of muscle and will could find any life worth mentioning. Men were stronger then, not so given to physical pleasures and niceties, as they simply could not be found in such a country. From the outside looking in, one might wonder what dysfunctional thinking prompted men to leave well founded towns with all the latest modern effects to head away from the east across a land so flat that water droplets would bead where they dropped.   
  
Land, they said, land was what they yearned for. But it was more than territory. Something beyond the crowded streets and the bustle of population that called to the heart and soul of the free man. From the inside looking about themselves, these leathered pioneers saw something more precious than comfortable housing or stage plays - land and a place to sink their roots and start something new and unspoiled. Not all was so flat and arid as it seemed on first glimpse, for beyond the horizon of tumbleweeds and the bleached bones of monsterous cacti that had fallen from wind or age, there was green and wild.  
  
But the call of the unspoiled did not beckon to the race of Men alone.   
  
---  
  
The peak of high summer had flooded over the easterly side of the great state of Texas in all its scorching glory. The humidity rose with it and added a nearly insufferable height of discomfort, but only nearly so. One never could quite acclimate to the oppressive heat no matter how long one resided in this region. Still, Man, beast and plant continued to tick through life.  
  
Amidst the heat and humidity, one went on with his labor. He was of no remarkable stature or build, slighter than most in fact, but with strong shoulders and hands accustomed to the rough sinews of rope sliding through their grip. A hat, worn and shaped to comfort, was tipped far over his eyes, shadowing his features as he kept his head tilted downward and slightly to the side, his attention obviously centered.   
  
The horse was a fine animal. From looking at its deep russet coat and well defined muscles, the clean lines of his legs, it was impossible to tell that at one point in the creature's lifetime it had been nothing but loose skin and bones with a fiery temper to boot. Now it moved flawlessly, tucking his head and giving to the slightest bump of the reins, showing willing submission in his every move. Indeed, there was really no need for bit, nor saddle.   
  
"Done it again, I see. Gone and turned an old nag to a piece of stock worth his weight in gold." The Mexican that stood at the outer edge of the round pen shook his head with a smile that cracked across dry, scraggly features like a gorge in a desert of thorns.   
  
The rider shifted his weight back, settling into the saddle with a subtle movement. The bay horse halted, the reins slack against his neck, never having been touched. Leaning forward on the pommel of the saddle and head still tipped downward with eyes hidden beneath his hat, the rider spoke softly. "None of these creatures are simply pieces of stock, Benito," it was said with a slight tone of reproval. His head slipped up, the shadow over his eyes lessening to reveal guardingly a youthful face whose lips twitched into a small smile, "I'd keep every one of them if I could."  
  
The old man slipped the loop of rope over the protruding top of the gatepost and pulled it open. "Ah, Mateo, they're only horses! I still do not see what appeals to you so when all they do is eat our food and then expel it again for us - or more accurately, me - to clean up!"  
  
Mateo dismounted outside the gate, running a hand down the length of the horse's neck. "Only?" he repeated, throwing a wry glance over his shoulder at Benito. He looked back to the horse, placing a hand under its chin. "Did you hear that friend? He just demeaned you!" The horse bobbed his head and gave a whicker that ended in an affronted snort. "You see, you've hurt his feelings." The bay stomped a hoof ill-temperedly. "You had better apologize."  
  
Benito for all his years in the company of Mateo, was by now used to his friend's eclectic way of personifying the creatures. Yet sometimes when he observed the horseman from afar, it seemed nigh impossible to deny that the man dealt with the beasts in a way in which no other was capable. Mateo was as strange as his ways and even after all these years, Benito had come to the conclusion that what his eyes saw was either a mirage of old age and too many years on his feet in the hot sun, or, Mateo was gifted in a supernatural way. Benito opted for the former.  
  
"My apologies, flea bitten beast." Pulling his bandanna from his neck, he tossed it at Mateo. "Wipe up; you smell like them."  
  
The rider laughed softly, doffing his hat.  
  
---  
  
Legolas watched Benito wander back to the shelter of the shade under the eave of the house, some ways away. He was limping again, Legolas noticed. Bad heat waves and severe cold usually accentuated it. Putting to use the bandanna, he dipped it into the trough of water that the horse was currently taking advantage of. Legolas looked down at the sopping cloth, and then to the cool - if not a little murky - water, then to the horse.  
  
With abandon, Legolas threw propriety to the wind and dropped to his knees, submersing his head up to his shoulders. He stayed that way for as long as he dared, then came back up, scrubbing his hands over his face. The refreshing liquid streamed down his back and chest, cooling and revitalizing everywhere it touched. A second time he plunged his head under, this time taking in mouthfuls. He figured that if it was good enough for the horses to drink, it was good enough for him. A lifetime of hard physical work out here in these lands and time had tempered that old proclivity for fastidiousness. Oh, he was still set on an orderly life style, but the little things were not so important to him anymore.   
  
Ai, if only his father could see him now, covered with grime and dirt, hair plastered to the sides of his face and working free of the leather tie... Indeed, the son of King Thranduil a rancher and a drifter for some thousand years since the shores changed and history had faded from Man's recollection of the old ways and their true past.  
  
He shook his head as he resurfaced, wondering what his father's reaction would truly be if he found out just where life had swept him off to. Perhaps he didn't want to know.  
  
His reverie was broken by Benito's warning cry from the porch. He had risen to his feet from where he sat beating leather into shape and was pointing east. Riders, was his call.   
  
Legolas swept the rogue hair back from his face and narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun. Benito was right. Riders, silhouetted against the horizon were drawing nearer, a sizable cloud of dust following in their wake as hooves churned the dry ground. A frown furrowed his smooth brow as he donned his hat once more. They were from town judging by their attire, well off as well and certainly not dropping by for pleasent afternoon tea.  
  
The impending situation did not bode well. So rare was it that any soul happened by his homestead for any reason, it simply did not happen - especially a posse. A suited posse, no less. But then, his visits to the town were few and far between as well. None really _knew him, except by word of mouth spun in the form of tales and rumors. By Benito's recitations of these gossips, Legolas was either a dangerous criminal, a gunman running from the law, or some other ghostly personage. It had given him many laughs to listen to the Mexican's stories, even though they weren't his so much as the townsfolk. Still, he regretted that they used his name as a way to scare little children into submission.   
  
The mind was an odd thing, he concluded. His visits to the town were few and far between, and hardly anything worth mentioning. Yet, whenever he happened by, for days afterwards he would be the talk of the town. He had done nothing to provoke the myths spread about him, but, he wondered, perhaps that was why those stories were weaved. Nothing, gave a mighty lot of room for speculation.    
  
  
As the riders drew up their horses, Legolas was already striding towards them, his hat pushed down over his eyes. "Good afternoon to you, sir," greeted one whom Legolas did not recognize from the settlement. He was of average height and weight, though his features were sharp. A pencil thin mustache was trimmed to a point, and no stitch of his suit was out of place. Legolas gave no word, but nodded cordially. "Fine day, is it not?"  
  
Benito came up beside him, hands still working to soften the new strip of leather made for reins. "Depends, Mister, on if you're inside with a lady fanning your face or outside doing useful things."  
  
He scathed Benito with a sharp look. "What may I do for you?"  
  
The man gave a smile, one that did not sit well with Legolas's foreboding feelings. It was far too preditorial for his liking. "Ah, now that is the question, my good man." He thrust out a hand, "The name is Marshall Godard, we're from the town and have come par the suggestion of some accomplices."  
  
Legolas took the proffered hand guardingly, eyeing Godard from under the shadow cast over his eyes. He offered back no name. "What was this referral for, might I ask?"  
  
Godard's smile sharpened. "That you may! You see," he laid a hand out, "I'm in the market for some horses."  
  
Immediately, Legolas withdrew his hand, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes flitted briefly over the posse's horses. They were lathered with sweat, wild-eyed, and stiff-mouthed. Not one could stand an uplifted hand without dancing away. No horse of his would be passed to any men that treated their animals such.  
  
"What if I told you this referral was inaccurate?"  
  
Godard's smile never wavered. "I'd say that from the looks of that herd over there, you're being too modest." He nodded in the direction of the grazing herd beyond the rough fencing. They were a fine lot, the finest in the region, some said in the whole of Texas.   
  
"They aren't for sale," Legolas stated, his arms unfolding and dropping to his sides.   
  
Feet shifted ever so slightly as Godard laughed a demeaning laugh. "You don't seem to understand." He stepped closer, a bit too close for Legolas's liking, but he made not move to relinquish his ground. "I'm willing to pay a handsome price for your stock, more than you could if you tried to sell them yourself."  
  
"I have no need for your money, Mr. Godard. I'm quite well off as it is."   
  
His fellow riders shifted behind him. Legolas noted the tension in their arms, and did not miss that more than one of them let their hands slid toward their hip. Godard and his cronies obviously were not used to being turned down. Placating smile in place without falter, Marshall Godard patted Legolas on the shoulder. Steeling himself, Legolas refused to move away from the unwanted comradely gesture. "Perhaps you don't, but," his smile turned almost sinister, "perhaps there's other things you'd barter with."  
  
He had had enough of this badgering. "I said, no Mr. Godard. Good day." Legolas gave no tip of his hat.   
  
"You're making a mistake, Wrangler, "the intruder admonished, his smile tightening and the lines about his eyes narrowing. "I sincerely hope you have a change of mind."  
  
But Legolas's back was already turned, though his hand stayed ready for action lest it was needed.  
  
Benito eyed the riders, his face, mapped with innumerable creases and gullies, nearly disappeared as he frowned. "Away with you buzzards! There's no meat for you here."  
  
Benito missed the look that passed over Godard's face. It could be likened to that of a serpent having successfully lured its prey into its jaws.  
  
---  
  
"Should have shot them when you had the chance," Benito grumbled across that night's meal.   
  
Legolas shot him a look as he spooned the cooling stew into his mouth. It was far too hot to eat anything warm on a day like this. "Maybe I should have, but I didn't."  
  
The old mexican gnawed on a particularly tough chunk of meat in the stew. He had been far from amiable company since the departure of Marshall Godard. He made it clear that he thought no good would come of it, and reluctantly, Legolas had to agree that that was his gut feeling too. "So that's that? No more gunslinging? No more murdering the evil in their sleep?"  
  
"Señor Benito, have you been down at the saloon recently?"  
  
Benito set his utensils down on his plate, leaning back with hands on his thighs. "No, no. But perhaps some such action would be appropriate at this time?"  
  
He leveled Benito with a stern gaze. "Did you not have enough killing in the war?"  
  
Benito turned sullen at this mention. His eyes turning as fiery as his spirit, no matter his age. That was where their friendship had been forged. On opposing sides, fate had brought them together. Benito resolutely decided not to go into the sentimentalities at this time when he was trying to be assertive.  "But it was one worth fighting," he retorted, "Like slaying those suit-toters." He paused, stabbing his fork at a carrot. "Why you were involved I still don't know, and I refuse to believe it was because you agreed with their agenda."  
  
"Benito, I refuse to get into this argument again," Legolas warned.   
  
"Oh-no, I was not the one that brought that can of beans out!" The old man leaned over the table and poked Legolas in the chest. "Don't go blaming old Benito for what he didn't do."  
  
Legolas set his elbows on the table and returned the gesture. "Then don't go calling old Mateo a gunslinger."  
  
"But you are! I've seen you with my own eyes. But old? You talking about yourself, you whippersnapper?" Benito gave a barking scoff. "I don't see any age lines or cares creasing your brow."  
  
Outwardly, Legolas smiled wryly. Inwardly though, it was another matter. _Oh, they're there, mellon. They are simply hidden inside. _Benito's years did not come to count a second in Legolas's lifetime.  
  
"Clean those plates for me, hijo. These joints won't take the abuse you put them - "  
  
The explosion that rent the heavy night air, sent shockwaves through the house, shaking sidings loose and causing the ground to heave beneath their feet.  
  
Benito cursed fluently in his native language and caught himself on the table once the short, but sharp upheavals had ceased. "Bloody beetles, what was that?"   
  
Legolas gave only a moment's pause before his shocked brain put two and two together. Two words slipped from his mouth before he flung his body into instinctive action.   
  
"The horses."  
  
Benito had only to blink once, and when he reopened his eyes, Legolas was gone.  
  
---  
  
Fire leapt from the dying remains of the barn he and Benito had worked so hard to build. But the building was the least of his concerns.   
  
There had been six horses stabled in that barn. The explosion had nearly leveled the building.  
  
Rage boiled in his veins, sending pulsing shots of hot blood coursing through his body to every nerve ending. Tearing himself away from the terrible scene, he scanned the horizon. There it was, accompanied by the sound of hooves; seven men in black and on horseback galloping through the gate that lead into the main pasture land. They carried whips. In that instant he knew their next target.  
  
Lifting his fingers to his lips, he let ring a shrill whistle. He needn't wait long before from out of the gathered gloom, an overo of mostly dark coloring burst from somewhere to his right. This was his horse, the free ranger that would come to no other.  
   
The horse did not slow his pace as with great loping strides he ate up the distance between him and the Elf. Rolling back on his heels and slipping the shotgun into its place in the harness on his back, he timed his leap, catching the horse's mane as he tore past without pause. The fact that he bore no saddle or bridle was of no matter to either.   
  
Leaning low over the horse's neck, Legolas whispered into his ear, "Speed Toril, follow the ones who have hands stained with innocent blood."  
  
By the time Benito emerged from the cabin, Toril had faded from sight. The rustlers had a fair head-start on them, but Legolas had the advantage of knowing where the horses would be and the aid of his keener senses and sight for navigation. _

They were gaining steadily, Toril's legs churning beneath him like that of a steam engine. Then came the first report of a colt and a moment later he heard the hiss of the bullet, far from its target. Legolas waited to draw his weapon, staying low and light on the horse's back.  
  
A second report, the shot went wide. These men obviously could not shoot, ride, and herd at the same time. The shrill bugle of a mare notified him that they had found the herd before he could reach them by some terrible fate. Toril's lungs heaved as a great cry blasted forth in answer to the distressed screams of the herd.   
  
Then they were on them. Toril acted on instinct, twisting to move the herd away like cattle. Legolas' rifle scraped from its harness at his back. With eyes narrowed, the muzzle swung 'round as Legolas straightened. He sighted along the barrel in the darkness, compensating for the sudden turns of Toril. Finger tightening on the trigger, the first rider fell between his sights. His finger slipped back.  
  
The man fell into the flying hooves of the herd, swept away to meet his just end.  
  
Toril took a sharp roll-back, ears pivoting with his legs as he moved to head off a terrified creature straying from the herd. Legolas had to catch hold of the horse's mane at the unexpected maneuver. To his left, he saw another rider racing them to the beast. Suddenly, he reined his horse harshly to a halt. Legolas caught sight of the empty brass casing too late as it spun a taunting serpentine in a glint of moonlight.   
  
The stray horse screamed, and fell.   
  
A mad yell of rage boiled from Legolas's soul as the rider also cried a command to the five remaining riders.  Their whips dropped. There would be no stopping what came next. The herd began to fall, one by one as the bullets brought them down. He brought the rifle to bear, but it was a futile cause.  
  
The horses, mad with fear as bullets hissed into their midst, stampeded without a care. Toril was forced to swing away, lest they be taken down in their frenzied flight. Easy targets and mindless in their plight, the horses stood no chance. Toril took a hit to the shoulder, but three more riders fell before the deed was done. Legolas could not push Toril to make chase to reap vengeance, though in all likelyhood, the horse would have gladly done so until he ran himself into the ground.   
  
The moon rose and a silver-blue light bathed the vale. Legolas slid from Toril's back, his mind numb with hatred and grief as he looked on the slaughtering ground of twenty-one horses.   
  
---  
  
"You were right, I should have killed the cowards when I had the chance."  
  
Benito watched while wringing his sweaty palms as Mateo slipped one round after another into the rings on his belt. His eyes were flinty and his movements deliberate. "Mateo," Benito grasped him by the shoulders, his thumbs pressing hard to make sure he had the other's attention. "You must be rational, as hard as it is."  
  
Mateo wrenched back, "I am being rational! This is justice and they shall get their just rights."   
  
"Think, Mateo! Those were lawmen, men with power behind them! Did you not see their attire? Who else here would wear such idiotic clothing?"   
  
"Their law is not mine if it justifies these atrocities. Is it not clearly stated that it is usually an offence to blow up a peaceful rancher's barn? Don't even mind about the animals then!" The fire flared brighter in his infuriated eyes, a growing, righteous anger that festered first in his heart. "Hiding behind the name of the law - all the while perverting the very thing called authority - will do them no good if they cannot wield a weapon." Twin colts slipped soundlessly into their place, nestled low and at easy access.  
  
Benito was left slightly lacking for words to follow up Mateo's brief, but heart conceived speech. "And besides," he continued lamely from his first excuse, "Maybe I, we, were wrong. There are plenty of fresh faced idiots in this dirt basin. Perhaps they had all won a collective gamble, bought themselves a new livery, drunk one to many drinks – prompting their idiotic behavior." Benito threw up his hands. "But that's besides the point."  
  
"What is your point?"  
  
"You have no sure evidence to conclude that they were even involved."  
  
"I need none."   
  
He opened his mouth to protest, but shut it upon further noting the flinty expression. His hands went back to working themselves nervously. This was doomed, he felt it! No matter how skilled Mateo was, good could not come of such a strike.  That was saying a lot as he had witnessed first hand the lad's prowess with all manner of firearms, and it was not limited to firearms, oh no.   
  
Mateo was dangerous, candiedly put, not simply all brawn and speedy reflexes. Mateo was cunning, his mind worked constantly it seemed, even when no expression showed on his face. In the war, where they had met at gunpoint at the Battle of Bexar, Benito had been privy to the extent of Mateo's abilities. He later admitted freely to Mateo's face that that had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. Nothing had come to compare since then.   
  
No doubt was in his mind that Mateo could bring down each and every one of the perpetrators in a night. But he would be hounded for the rest of his life, never able to live for long in one place. Benito, however, didn't know that Mateo could not do so even now.   
  
The other contingency was still the unsure conclusion that Marshall Godard was involved by some means. Though it was the most probable theory, there was still that to consider. Mateo had a good heart, never one to kill without need. If he reaped vengeance on the innocent, he knew Mateo could never live with that blood forever staining his hands. It was as he tried to conceive a better way, that enlightenment struck Benito in the form of a simple notion, one passed down from generation to generation.  
  
"I have a very sound idea to which that I think you may want to hearken."  
  
---  
  
A/N: First chapter, many notes may follow as explanation.   
  
Number one, I tried my hardest to avoid using the word 'man' in reference to Legolas. I was able to do so when speaking from his side of the fence, but when Benito for example is observing him, there were a few instances in which I could not keep from doing so. My apologies for that contingency.  
  
Secondly, and most importantly, I hope to make it clear that this is not a story in which I explain how and under what circumstances some elves remained to the beginning of this period of time. That has already been covered in works such as Scribe's "The Patient" and Victoria's "Unblinded" (Shameless plug, go read!). I'm hoping to give insight into what happened through the long years leading up to the times they so wonderfully expand on and record in their masterpieces. So this is a "When, and _what_ happened" not a "How it happened" retelling. This is not to say that I am totally going at this without a notion as to how it might have happened logically. I'm falling on Dagor Dagorath for my excuses.  
  
Thirdly, I promise, with all my heart and will, to try and make this as believable as possible and plausable. In all it's ugly glory, this is most likely an AU, Valar help me, but I can't avoid it if I really am going to go ahead and write this monstrosity.  
  
Fourthly and lastly, since I have no self-control this time 'round and am posting this as I go with only a forethought beyond the readers, expect many of those cursed editing runs in which I go back and most likely mess up the earlier chapters. I'm terribly sorry about this.  
  
Those three, now wait, four,  issues being stated, I hope I didn't leave anything to important out. I'm honestly looking forward to your thoughts with great zeal!  
  
Your humble writer,  
Bill  
  



	2. Many Musings

****

Right Side of Justice  
_Chapter 2 - Many Musings  
_  
  
It was nigh impossible to liken the upstart town of Harris to anything seen in the days of the Elves - from architecture, to the denizens. The times had certainly changed, and with it, the people.   
  
Benito knew little of this change, however. In his mind, he had seen the turning of one too many winters to the sweltering heat of summer. He had seen people come and go from Harris, of the majority he had only met their backs as the freshly shoed hooves of their horses kicked up the dry, Texas earth. But he had no bone to pick with those that decided to pass on to meeker territory.   
  
It was a hard life, one of sweat and blood that often was spilt from the cracked fissures in hands torn by hoe or shovel. Some regretted their change of profession, from the life behind a bar or the of working soft, tilled soil - though not all. Many remained, stubborn pride and determination driving them on to break the hard dust and mold it to something worth more than gold. Something in their blood ran with fiery vigor, spurring an ancient spirit alive.   
  
Benito, on the other hand, had lived this lifestyle from baby peach fuzz to hoary beard. His hands were toughened to leathery texture long before he reached his full height and laboring in the heat with a cloth tied about his head to delay, but not deter, the sweat from dripping into his eyes and blurring vision. From youthful adventures to war as a man seasoned by years, Benito had thought he had met every character of folk possible - until he had stared down the barrel of a rifle into the strange, shadowed face of one was to become his greatest comrade. 

It would be another story altogether to tell of that meeting and the events that surrounded it, one that will not be told at this time. It is enough to know that fate was at hand that day and that by circumstance or what some deemed luck, Mateo stayed his hand - and that was to both parties a great fortune.  
  
From that time, Benito had a companion in his work after the war. It was different work now than he was brought up with, wrangling horses and preforming the duties associated with Mateo's trade. 

Trade? Was that really what one could call his practice? Benito had rocked on the groaning back legs of the porch chair many a time and observed the strange young man's work with a discerning and curious eye. From before the dawn, until the fading twilight diffused to full night, Mateo spent no amount of time far from the company of the animals that he seemed to truly love so dearly. Rarely breaking for any mid-day meal, he toiled - though Mateo would never call his work a burden - tirelessly, taking his joy in the living things. Soft of speech and quiet in touch, the horses returned every degree of his affection in turn.  
  
He was undoubtedly, Benito had concluded, the most peculiar cowboy he had yet to encounter.  
  
These were all the ruminations of a slightly bored mind at odd hours of day or night. At the moment, it was mid-morning, and the setting: the town of Harris, seated in a particularly seedy but highly occupied saloon. With no clean countertop to speak of, Benito searched out the least sticky square foot to heft his elbows, but seeing that about every vicinity was equally caked with squandered liqour and various grime, he saw no reason to be particular. Anyway, it wasn't as if he already didn't carry a stench. _The Star of Harris _was indeed misnamed by the cavaliering owner of the questionable establishment. There were actually two saloons in Harris, and _The Star _was certainly not the cleanest, nor the friendliest. But it was the cheapest, and that, after all, was what mattered to the shallow pockets of the townsfolk.   
  
The piano player diddling away an overly jaunty tune in the corner was not even that good, missing more flats than he did the dirty white keys. If asked why he did so, he would not answer with the defense - and truth - that he was simply not that talented, but would straight-faced tell you with a quiver to his lip that "...I always liked the black keys more."  
  
"Benito, the old man from the cactus comes to visit us!" A shot glass clicked down in front of him, top down. Running his eyes up the full sleeved arm, Benito already knew the view. Howard Teller was a lanky fellow, the bartender of _The Star _for more years than could be counted one and a half hands - if you could count that high - and took great pride in stating that fact to any newcomer that happened through his door. Even the regulars were reminded of this anomaly weekly, but none were about to complain since it was usually followed by a celebratory round on the house.  
  
"Bah," Benito grunted, flipping the glass up and accepting the proffered drink. "Cactus is the least of my concerns out on the plains." He would waste no time in putting his scheme to work. There was yet the nagging concern that upon his return, Mateo would be gone if he tarried too long here.   
  
The man beside him, a swarthy faced character with a long, hawk like nose that tipped downward sadly, nudged him in the arm with his elbow. "Yeah, I guess not if you're bunking with that ghostly friend of yours." It was an obvious prod for Benito to spill the beans about the curious, and grossly rumored about man of the outside lands.   
  
Benito pursed his bristled upper lip in the man's direction. "No, no, Señor," he tipped the glass upwards and tried not to blanch at the horrible quality of the liquor. It was an effort not to curse the maker for his ignorance on the finer points of the distillary skill. Settling his weight on his arms, he leaned forward on the bar. "We - " he stopped himself, "_I_, have only to worry about murdering horse thieves who burn an honest rancher's barn and kill his herd."  
  
A momentary silence lulled the loud caterwauling crowd of those near by able to overhear. Card games were paused momentarily as gamblers and observers alike centered their attentions on the Mexican. So much for subtlety.   
  
"Horse thieves, you say?" Howard ventured quietly, much subdued, the gaiety having left his face. Benito nodded, prompting the bartender with a hand to continue. Howard Teller looked quite nervous, glancing about at the faces of the crowd that were being drawn to the silence. He was looking for someone, and was clearly relieved when his search turned up null. "You're not the only one, old man, Anders came in the other day and said that his stock - you know, the two bays, the roan mare and the team he was so proud of? Well, he came in and said that three nights ago, he woke up to the sound of hooves. By the time he made it to the barn, his team and the three others were gone without nary a trace."  
  
Anders, as Benito could recall, did consider those stolen his claim to fame. Fine they were, and well boned and muscled. He hated to think the rampage Anders must have gone on after finding them gone. Good horses they were, but so had been Mateo's herd.   
  
"Did Anders by chance happen to mention a visit from some officious looking characters?" he ventured, looking for the missing link to the suspicions.   
  
Howard tipped back his head, tapping a finger on his protruding jaw. "Hmm, now that you mention it, I believe he did. From that new government firm that set up shop here some weeks back..." He frowned, finger continuing to twitch as he delved back into his memory for something further. "What was it that he said was their business?"  
  
"Government firm?" Claxons blared in Benito's thought. "What government firm?"  
  
"Why don't you know?" said the man to his right. "They came in late afternoon in a big stagecoach with a contingent of cavalry men behind it. Quite a scene they made, no doubt about that." A few others nodded in agreement.   
  
"What kind of firm?"  
  
Howard shook his head and gave a bark of laughter. "Blessed if I know! When asked, those government tweeds just said it was for some kind of new law act of some sort that was just passed up in one of those fancy states, in a room full of top hats!" He nodded eyebrows out of cadence with his nods. "You know how they are, all secretive and la-de-da."  
  
Benito danced the shot glass on its rim. "Indeed I do."  
  
There was a pregnant pause in which all looked to his neighbor, then back to the Mexican. It was the bartender who voiced the universal question. "Ye think they're involved?"  
  
Benito tread lightly, this was dangerous territory both in speech and for his physical neck. So he shrugged, the usual sign of a lack of opinion - or at least the unwillingness to share one, as it was in his case. "All I know," he tipped back his chair, "is that I definitely don't want to be the one behind all this if your phantom decides to extract his justice."  
  
Inwardly he chuckled. Referring to Mateo as a phantom was sure to give the town another week of speculation.  
  
---  
  
"What did I tell you?"  
  
Legolas gave Benito a bemused look. "Was it not you who was counseling me this very morning not to rush to any unfounded conclusions?"  
  
Shifting from foot to foot, as he tended to do when antsy, the Mexican pulled his bags off the saddle horn. "I still told you didn't I?"  
  
Legolas knew a pointless debate when he saw one - and this was most certainly one such debate. "So, oh wise counselor, what would you have me do now?"   
  
The Mexican gave him a droll, unabashedly "What else?" look. "You ride into town, find the cowards, and send them to the hell they deserve." He stated it as if a two-year-old should have known such elementary.  
  
But Legolas's morning vigor and zealousness for vengeance had shed itself to make room for the habitual cautiousness he lived by - and had lived by for uncounted years and had kept him very much in that breathing state. The 'coincidence' of the visitation to Anders' ranch farm was almost too coincidental to have connection. It wasn't even as if this firm (if they were truly the ones behind it) was trying to hide it. He could form a dozen scenarios counting against their guilt. This made him more than a little uneasy.   
  
The ages had taught him one thing at least: some things were deeper and darker than at first they might appear.   
  
Legolas twisted the reins in his hand, contemplating the horse in front of him while his mind was really elsewhere. She was a bit thin in the barrel, but her eye was soft. "This is a good horse, Benito." The old man stared agape at him; Legolas didn't seem to notice. "Who loaned her to you?"  
  
Benito shrugged, still eyeing him quizzically. "Bought her, actually, that Howard Teller seemed eager to get rid of her and I figured, well, knowing you..."  
  
"...I'd be able to turn her into something decent?" Legolas finished for him. Benito nodded in turn. "No need for that; Teller obviously doesn't know much about horses."  
  
"You're trying to change the subject, aren't you?"  
  
"No," he replied, drawing it out ponderously.  
  
Benito threw up his hands, muttered some indistinguishable curse, and left with stomping steps. At that moment, he reminded Legolas very much of a pouting toddler, or at least a hobbit whom had lost his dinner.   
  
This thought of that odd and simple race called hobbits brought him to reminiscence, as thoughts of those olden days usually evoked. He missed those days; oh, there had been dreadful times perverted with carnage, destruction and the awful stench of evilness, but it was the golden days of light and unguarded friendship that gave him pause to remember. He never wanted to forget them, not the days, nor the people, nor land.  
  
The land had been indeed changed. The dales and the woods he used to wander were provinces unwelcoming to him, the trees strange in their speech as even they had changed with time and forgetfulness. Some had grown so treeish that they had sunk so far into their sleep that there was no hope of drawing them back to their old roots.   
  
Oh yes, and the men had changed. A very different people they were now, and seemingly more forgetful than even their predecessors had been. How many times had he had to remind Aragorn where he had put his whetting stone in Bill the pony's packs on the trek from Imladris to the threshold of Caradhras?  
  
He smiled at the memory, along with many others that happened by as he allowed himself for once to sink into the longing of the past. Looking at his life as the night sky stretching from his birth on the left horizon, to the present, on the right horizon, all the stars which signified friendships were clumped in a bright blaze of silver at the left horizon. They thinned as the eye tracked right and eventually, only one here, one there shining like lonely jewels on an ebony sheet of a weaver's cloth.   
  
It must be understood that the void of companionship was not for lack of desire or aloofness of station in the ladder of nobility - for that had no meaning in a territory such as this without means to prove it. Nay, many lonely years he had spent, moving from place to place, town to town, never connection, never reaching out - save anonymously - because he simply could not. Suspicions, more than already were lumped on him, would be roused when from year to year, as a son turned to a grandfather and his grandchildren became grandfathers Legolas remained untouched by the withering pinch of age.   
  
But life is not worth living when no confidence can be shared, no love extended. So it was to those that did not ask questions, nor prod for answers did he go for solace in the deafening silence of loneliness. The horse, a creature that needed a herd and a family as much as any child. Any elf for that matter. He brought them in off the range, tending their hurts, growing the grass needed to take the bite of hunger in the summer months when the grass shrank from the heat, offering the shelter of a solid roof better than any rock in the winter months.   
  
Here, on the far outskirts of Harris, had been his longest roost in decades. For a reason unknown to him, he liked it here. The people perhaps, Benito for one, and well, there was just a feeling that he needed to stay. Something seemed to lurk in the back of his conscience, nagging at him and hinting at some purpose yet in store; and the feeling was getting stronger.   
  
Legolas loosed the horse into the round pen that stood alone near the smoldering skeleton of the barn. The creature stopped in the middle, pivoted ears and head from one side to the other while testing the air with flared nostrils. Then giving Legolas one more regarding consideration, dipped her neck to the ground and began nosing the dry earth. He stood there for some time, watching and observing her moves as she searched out and eventually found the parched grass hedging the perimeter of the rails.  
  
He was roused from pondering for the second time in the course of two days by Benito's shout. "It's a rider again, Señor, he looks like he's alone." The Mexican trotted to his side, eyes squinted, peering through the dimness of dusk. "Should I fetch your rifle?"  
  
He shook his head, patting his hip where slung low at easy reach nestled a colt. If there was any small trouble, he'd probably opt for the knife in his boot - boots worn to supple conditioning since even after all these years he chaffed at their restriction. The gun was an after-thought really. "Let him come, and please," he looked pointedly at his shorter companion, "do not threaten to dissect his innards if he looks at as what you would deem as uncharitably. "  
  
Benito frowned, stuck his hands in his pockets and stumped back to his work.   
  
The approaching rider slowed his horse to a trot as he passed through the gate. As he dismounted and slung a rein loosely over the hitching rail, Legolas regarded him closely, taking appreciative note of the unloaded weapons. Still, Legolas was not about to disarm himself. The rider was a young man, perhaps in his late-twenties at best - an adult to the standards of Men, but a mere seedling in the shadow of Legolas's own age. Of lanky build, but of no mentionable height, he walked his way with a purposeful stride. Even in the bad light of dusk, Legolas could see that this visitor was not here out of curiosity. Business was the name of the game.   
  
"Howdy," Legolas winced as the man spoke. How he hated that word. He didn't know why, but it was just so, what was the term these men used? Ah, it was just so, _corny_. Putting this aside, Legolas nodded, acknowledging the man.   
  
"What can I do for you?" No reason in not being polite.  
  
The man looked down at his hands for a moment, seeming to weigh his words carefully before speaking them. An admirable trait and rare to be found in these men who were so impulsive. "I think you probably already know what I'm here about. You don't get strangers much riding into your ranch here," he gave a cursory nod to the surroundings.   
  
"You're right." Legolas shouldered the bridle. "So I take it your here about the horses."  
  
The stranger nodded. "Yup, and I'm guessing your hand over there told you about Anders' misfortune as well."   
  
Again, Legolas bobbed his head.  
  
"But he probably didn't tell you that Jamison, Westers, and Gregson all sold a number of horses to those government chaps in the past few days since they set up shop in Harris. They got the same offer as Anders and probably yourself did. Except they agreed, whereas yourself and Anders both declined."  
  
Legolas accepted this information warily, careful to keep an impassive mask in place. If this was accurate, then there was little left to doubt. But were yet a few matters left to clear. "So why are you telling me all this? Surely it's not out of neighborly concern."  
  
The man tapped the brim of his dusty hat, it was certainly not a decorative item. "To tell you the truth mister, I'm probably not one you'd want for a neighbor," he said with a wry, but honest grin that Legolas took a liking to immediately. "But to answer your question, it's because I, like those high-upities, have a proposal for you." He gave Legolas a moment to object on the spot, but Legolas didn't. "To put it simply, I'm fed up with these far too clean folks telling me what to do and busting my profit if I don't agree. A man comes out here to get away from that rot." He paused, giving Legolas yet another chance to intervene. "It's more than just a personal grudge though, other towns have had the same persecution and far worse. I say we put a stop to it."  
  
Legolas regarded and listened to him quietly from under the shadow of his hat. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, he showed no expression of distaste or approval. "That still doesn't explain why you've come all this way to tell me of your personal agenda."  
  
"Don't give me that enigmatic jargon, stranger. You're smart, real smart, everyone knows it."   
  
"And how would they know that? Not one of the towns folk even know my name if I recall correctly."  
  
"Gah, you know what I mean," he huffed, brushing aside Legolas's remark. "But besides being a brain, you're dangerous. And besides that, what else do you need to be a good fighter? Or what's more, what else do you need to be a good outlaw?"  
  
Legolas's head tilted up, an eyebrow raising at this last remark. Outlaw, eh? Hmm, well that was one thing he hadn't been yet - and was not entirely sure he wanted to try that side of the law out for size. "I think you've listened to one too many bar rumors, friend," he said with a light laugh. "What's your name?"  
  
"Tyne," he thrust out a hand, "Scott Tyne. And who might you be, besides the Phantom of Harris?"  
  
Legolas took it with a firm hand. The eyebrow arched higher, "I'm a ghost now, am I?"  
  
Scott's lips crooked upward in a lopsided grin that slanted diagonally across his face. "Yeah, you've been a lot of things. Ghost, cursed spirit, murderer, wizard, and so on. Some not so human things as well."  
  
"The things they come up with," Legolas chuckled, letting go the hand. "I go by the name Mateo, call me what you will though, be it monster, ghost or wizard." This last one gave Legolas quite a mental laugh. Ai, what would Mithrandir think? What a scandal.  
  
Scott held his gaze, not willing to let him off the hook yet. "So what do you say? Get your revenge, blast some bad guys, be a hero, at least get free drinks on the house?"  
  
"Three out of four of those I have already had, and once is all I need." He re-folded his arms, bouncing the bridle back into place. "And revenge must be carefully selected."  
  
Tyne was beginning to show signs of annoyance. Little twitches, shifting feet, breaths puffing out from a bristled, but shaved lip. "They killed your horses, a whole herd of 'em! Isn't that enough to be a little mad over?"  
  
"Of course," Legolas nodded, fingering the smooth bit. "But not at the wrong party."  
  
"What will convince you?" Scott questioned. "Do you have to have it in writing?"  
  
A strange smile ghosted his lips. Legolas tipped his hat to the young man, coyness giving a glint to his eye. "Why, that would be mighty nice of you Mr. Tyne. I look forward to seeing the proof."  
  
Never one to leave his guests at ease, or any bit clearer in the head, Legolas gave a farewell and stalked off in search of his horse. He needed to do some thinking, and he certainly could not think without interruption here.  
  
---  
  
It was a pool few knew about that was spread out here under a rogue copes of trees, struggling with root and branch to grow tall and fruitfull of shade. It lay between two hills - if you called two mounds of dirt not seven feet high hills - and was the most unexpected surprised for one coming over one of those hills. Hidden from view and out of the way of normal travel, only the birds and wild beasts knew of it with the exception of Legolas.   
  
The pool was not a pretty thing, but still it was here he came whenever the life he tread now became too much. The drooping trees, the water, the green grass rising about the pool like an admiring public, was a comfort in light of this dry and dusty land. What had brought him out here? The sea was many days ride from here and woods were scarce. There was little to no aspect that should draw one such as himself. But still, by call he came and tried his best not to grouse the whole long trek across barren plains, forsaken of water or life.   
  
Toril bowed his head, taking in noisy slurps of water as any true mustang of the brush would do when happening upon such a source of life. A leaf drifted past his nose, taken on the slight current created from the almost unnoticable spring bubbling from where a group of rocks were piled at the end of the pool. It didn't look natural how when one scanned the horizon, no rocks their size could be found and yet here four looked as if they had been placed there. Legolas had wondered about this pool before, pondering its creation as he doubted it was simply some geographic feature of hapenstance.   
  
Kneeling by the water at the soggy edge, he took a hint from creation and lapped up his own fill of the cool liquid. It had a good, earthy taste. But then again, it could be the mud being displaced by Toril's front hooves he noted with a glare at the horse. Toril bobbed his head, flicking up a miniature wave of water with his upper lip. Cheeky little horse he was.   
  
  
The sun was beginning to set in the west, huge and orange as it reluctantly began to dip down into the horizon. Heat waves wreathed it in a shimmering auora, seeming to warp the brush and make the very earth dance a deceptivly watery dance. It made everything look so unstable, wavering, dipping and twisting bonelessly to and fro. A strange beauty, cruel, yet beautiful. The pool turned gold, the last rays of the sun slanting between the two hills to color the water and cause it to reflect sky and all those things above its brilliant surface.   
  
From out of the water in the amber light, Legolas's own face stared up at him. He regarded the timeless countenance, looking for any sign of age. All that had changed was a slight furrowing of the brows.   
  
He did _look_ different though. For one, his hair was shorter; tied back now for convenience sake and he had had to decline from the fine, thin braids that would often weave back from his hair line to disappear strangely into other knottings. The dusty old hat was a change of style as well that had multiple advantages. From discression, to taking the glare off the huge sun that seemed particularly vexed at Texas. And speaking of dusty...   
  
His lips turned upward in a wane smile as he took in the grubby complexion he sported from simply a days hard work. So much for the myths of dirt repellency. Elves, unlike some tales, were just as capable of griminess as any man. Rolling in the mud would have the same affect on either race. One may just do it with more dignity than the other.   
  
His watery self stared up at him from beneath the surface, wondering at the solid him. His eyes were the telling factors of his years, carrying more depth now than in his earlier days. They seemed to ask of him the question: What now? He was faced with a decision to step out of his isolated bubble back into civilization, back into the world of men; and it was a daunting prospect.  
  
A breeze blew up suddenly, brushing past him and rippling the pool's surface, distorting his image into bizzare curves. Then as aburuptly as it had come, it left, leaving the water to settle. But his reflection did not return. Legolas peered closer, brows furrowing as not his own image but anothers slowly arranged after the disturbed surface began to smooth. Ripples evened out and Legolas saw.  
  
It was Aragorn, in the days of the Third Age, full of vigor with a light in his eyes. He looked up from the pool, as his own reflection had done. Legolas remained still, wondering at this vision and daring not move lest it be disrupted. But what will be, will be, and what he was to see, he would see. But the image of the man's face did not change, continuing to gaze from the waters up into Legolas's face with knowing eyes that answered his concerns in the quiet of his mind.  
  
As the breeze built again, whisking Aragorn's visage away, the turmoil was snatched from his heart, leaving him very much at peace with no questions left to be answered.  
  
---  
  
A:N - I really had to restrain myself from calling this one "Mainly Musings". This was the necessary mush pot for all the previous happenings and mental pondering. Blegh, I hate those. My apologies for the terribly slow chapter. Chapter three resumes the action.  
  
Also, I noticed something in my horrid summary that just made me blanch. I'm sure you have seen it, but were to kind to correct me. 'Roll' has now been corrected. My deepest apologies.  
  
Thanks to Brat64, Daw the Minstrel, Citrine and Kay who have been so kind in their reviews with encouragment and suggestions. I'm excited to hear that you approve so far. Also, special thanks to P.Rico who drew a simply marvelous randition of 'Rancho Legolas'. You're just too great.  
  
You're humble writer,  
Bill  
  
  



	3. Tight Spot

__

Disclaimer: None of the familiar characters, places, or features belongs to me. They are the brainchildren of Master Tolkien and owned by his enterprises and or New Line Cinema.**  
  
Right Side of Justice**  
_Chapter 3 - Tight Spot_  
  
Annoyance didn't describe a thing when it came to Scott Tyne's disposition, it didn't even scratch the surface. Annoyance was more of a small itching at the back of one's skull that slowly grew to an incessant twinging and nagging that caused one to actually pick at that untouchable spot. Once it passed this, it could be considered aggravation. No, that still didn't touch on Tyne's demeanor. Now maybe the stage in which one took the axe to that nagging bur that causes so much insomnia... Unfortunately, he had yet to put a name to this stage.   
  
But which of his two problems were more of the bur? The suited cronies in town, or the stranger out on the bush?  
  
The latter obviously had some nerve and audacity to break into his apartment above the saloon without his permission. But then again, if Mateo had had his permission, it wouldn't be called "breaking in". Disturbingly enough, there had been no sign of unlawful entry. He had stood at his door, unlocked it, entered, gone about his business, then turned around to find the odd character lounging in a chair with long fingers interlocked over his chest, most relaxed and at home. He looked almost like a permanent fixture of the room. When Scott was in mid-reach for his gun, Mateo waved his hand, head remaining tilted downward with chin resting on his chest.   
  
"No need for that, it's just me."  
  
Scott retracted his hand, swearing none to quietly. "Do you want to get yourself shot or something? Have a death wish do you?"  
  
Mateo tipped his head to the side, regarding him with one eye. "You don't have to worry about that too much." Slowly, without a hint of hurry, he sat up and straightened his hat. "I've considered your offer, and I think I'm interested."  
  
Scott did a double take at the abrupt confession. He hadn't expected the rancher to change his seemingly resolute mind. His day - which had previously been in the pits - was brightening up considerably. "Really now?"   
  
Mateo nodded. "But first, you mentioned something about having the facts in writing."  
  
Devilish man! Scott was ready to curse him again. "Look, I was just using a figure of speech, I don't actually - "  
  
Mateo raised one eyebrow, and that was the end of that. "If you want my help, you'll find some hard evidence." He stood, touching the brim of his hat and shrugged into his coat. Scott hadn't even noticed it lying across the bed when he had first entered. Mateo paused in the doorway as if something nagged at his memory. He raised a finger, turning slightly. "And, don't bother coming to find me. I'll just drop in."  
  
Scott Tyne was left to work his jaw, and restrain himself from shooting the stranger in a non-life threatening location - or at least attempting to do so. But no, he had his work cut out for him, might as well get started.  
  
---  
  
There were few things Marshall Godard liked more than paper work. It had such an officious feeling, signing title after title of land over to the government. With every scratch of his gold tipped pen, one more life was affected dramatically by the curling of his signature. It was a remarkable and exhilarating feeling, power.   
  
But there was one thing he did enjoy more than such paper shuffling, and that was being there to see and be a part of the effects of his signature at work. Unfortunately, recently he had not been able to be a part of these processes due to the, delicacies, of the current power play. It was indeed delicate. Word of the goings on were to be kept on a need to know bases, and once outside the building, lies were the order of the day.   
  
Then again, lies and deceit were the cornerstones on which he built his authority. They worked quite well too.   
  
Through the open window a breeze hesitantly ventured, the one intruder that went unauthorized without complaint. It was a rare visitor on this dusty and ill expanse, but was welcomed even by one such as Godard. Physical comforts were never unwelcome guests.   
  
Papers rustled below their weights, the corners fanning. Godard frowned and smoothed the current sheet flat. It was the commission to purchase ten horses off a local rancher on the morrow; all that he needed now was the rancher's signature then all would be in order. He would go through the spiel for payment being delivered on the first of the twelfth month, approximately five months from now.   
  
An empty spiel it was, for no money would come and there would be no papers recorded to back up the spineless claim for payment from the lowly rancher. The horses would be his, for free, but the poor, stupid and witless ranchers didn't need to know this. That was just one reason why security was tight. It would mean havoc if that little detail managed to break free.  
  
The pen scratched and rolled upward as the serpentine tail of the 'd' swung up and around to end sharply at a tapering end. Oh, he smiled, he may have a little role in this scheme right now - gathering stock and weaving his fingers into control of this insignificant little town - but not for long. This had been his idea, his brainchild, and _he_ would have to realize it once all was put into action. Shifty eyes scanned the room, an odd notion of mind reading that made him reluctant to even think _his_ name.   
  
In the stillness of the spacious room, he gave a hoarse chuckle. What a silly notion, mind-reading; almost as silly as if someone had told him that an elf from some magical wood was going to invade his life and be the ruin of him. What ever had possessed him?   
  
Rising from his chair, he stretched his arms behind him and rolled his neck from side to side. He'd been sitting far too long. Perhaps it was time to stretch the legs.   
  
He left, leaving the window open.  
  
---  
  
The door clicked shut, the lock snapping into place on the opposite side. Tyne grunted, wishing above all to scratch his nose, but it was quite impossible due to his position. The renovated saloon, turned store, turned warehouse building had a sheer side with few balconies and only one ladder on the exterior. Unfortunately for Scott, the office of Marshall Godard did not sport a balcony for the sake of security, but balconies were for amateurs after all, and he was not an amateur.   
  
Right?  
  
He would never admit that using a ladder was just as amateur-ish. Dull-witted cronies hadn't even thought that someone could quite easily climb a ladder and take a short hop to the window. At least, Scott had thought it would be an easy hop from the ground. Looking at it now, well, it didn't look so easy anymore.   
  
But if he wanted the aid of that bur-like Mateo, then it was now or never. He didn't like the sound of never, so it was now.   
  
He was right, it wasn't easy. Leaping sideways while trying to get his feet free of the rungs landed him a hairs breath almost out of reach. Eyes widening considerably, he pawed the air as gravity clobbered at him. Fingers brushed the sill and down clamped nails. Gravity was out of luck today. "Heh," he wheezed with a grin, "piece of cake."  
  
Slip.  
  
Cursing, he scrambled his feet against the wall, desperately searching for purchase in the wood. His fingers slipped farther, dragging across the sanded surface. Looking over his shoulder, he realized just how far a drop it was. Gravity, seeing an opportunity, lunged back to grab hold of his ankles. Another precious inch was lost.  
  
But by blessing, or by the luck Scott Tyne lived by, Gravity was foiled again by a small, almost unnoticeable crack just big enough for the tip of his sole to slip into. It was just enough to stop his decent. With puffing breaths, Scott snaked one hand forward, then the next until he had a good grip on the sill. "Yeah," hand over hand he pulled himself upwards, boots banging loudly against the wood siding, "I said it was a piece of cake. An old chewy piece of cake, but still cake," he admitted quietly.   
  
Rolling on his stomach, he swung his legs into the room. He didn't expect the drop.  
  
Thunk.   
  
That was the body.  
  
Crash.  
  
That was the vase.   
  
"Blast it!"  
  
That was the curse.  
  
Scrambling to his feet, his hand went to his hip, drawing his gun out of reflex. Too much noise, way too much noise. The desk, being the most obvious source of documents, was his first visit. Tax statements, all of which were overblown, a commission for a new building, a complaint from a store owner, aha! There it was, something with 'stock' in the title.   
  
He had no time to read it, for right at the moment his hand touched the document, a door slammed somewhere very close, followed by voices distinct enough for him to pick out the tone. They had heard him.  
  
Stuffing the paper in his vest, he hurried to the window. No time to climb down, the footsteps were at the door and the handle was rattling as the key was turned.  
  
Jumping, though not usually the best way to keep one's body in functioning order, was the fastest way out of a tight spot from any given height.   
  
Out the window, a brief free fall then a grunt as the breath was temporarily knocked from his lungs. This was followed by one of the most natural of stenches. Scott had never been so happy to see manure, or had seen such a collection. What a mound of manure was doing under Marshall Godard's window, he had no clue, but he didn't question a kind fate like this. Even if it did stink.  
  
---  
  
Ignoring the suspicious stares from his floor mates, and obvious repulsion from the women he passed - though he did offer them little hurried tips of his now greenish hat - he pushed through his door, slamming it behind him with his heel. He could deal with the grime for a little longer, but first it was time to have a look at the goods.  
  
At least, he would have if the door had not suddenly exploded inward from behind him. The heavy panel nearly knocked him flat, but sent him stumbling. He staggered, dazed and reeling, but managed to turn and reach for his gun.  
  
Of course, now was the perfect time for it to jam stubbornly in its holster. But today was indeed his most lucky day. This was proven when the window shattered, in much the condition of the door, a body swinging feet first into the room. Razor edged debris sprayed inward, forcing the intruders and Scott to raise their arms in defense. The figure hit the ground on his feet, colt unholstered and firing with deadly aim. His savior bowled into him, knocking him flat. He found himself caught in a rolling ball, gripped about the waist and tucked head against legs. The two bodies carried impressive momentum, crashing into the legs of the scrambling men.  
  
Dragged unceremoniously upright, the stranger kept a firm grip on his collar and ran headlong down the hall without swerving. Scott had given his life up for that of butchered meat, Godard's men had his trail and that was that. But the stranger, masked by a bandana over the lower portion of his face, wasn't so convinced at the end condition of the day. Skipping the hairpin turn to the stair entry, he flung both himself and Scott over the railing. However, Scott wasn't so graceful and crashed _through_ the railing, not over it.   
  
Like most drops today, it was longer than he had expected, even though he had trudged up the steps uncountable times. He hit the ground and staggered, his knees sparking in protest and cursing his adrenaline and vigor. The stranger didn't even give pause at impact, grabbing hold of Scott's collar once again. They blew past poor, confused Howard Teller, the bartender, with Godard's men hot on their tail.   
  
Evening was coming on, the sky beginning to redden and turn a violent shade. It was towards the setting sun that they dodged down the main street, eventually cutting down a side ally and up a less populated one. Scott's savior made no move to stop until they had left the town far behind and it had passed from sight behind a gently rising hill. They jogged on, weaving up the steady incline towards the rocky crown.   
  
Wheezing like a balloon losing air, Scott collapsed once they halted, not at all accustomed to jogging such a distance on his own two legs without the aid of his horse's four. The stranger turned to him, gave him one amused look and pulled down his mask. Scott supposed later that he shouldn't have been surprised, but he had been when he found himself looking upon none other, but Mateo. "It's you!" pretty much summed up his feelings.  
  
"What an astute observation."  
  
"I suppose then that it's just as stupid a question to ask how you planned crashing through my window? Guess you weren't kidding about 'dropping in'."  
  
Mateo shook his head, muttering something indistinguishable under his breath. Speaking up, he said, "You really ought to pay more attention whilst you're scaling walls and going about your, um," he paused, looking for the correct word, "espionage."  
  
Scott's jaw worked, no words escaping for quite sometime. Was he mad or mortified, neither quite knew. "You were watching me the whole time?" he finally managed.   
  
Mateo offered another one of his strange smiles. "Only since you made your oh, so impressive jump from ladder to window." He had the audacity to chuckle. "You know, you could have just climbed higher and then gravity, which seemed to be your enemy, could have been your ally by pulling you down from a higher point - giving you much more time to grab hold."  
  
It was known to most that one should never critique another's work when it came to robbing, plundering or spying of any kind. The reason to this was yet unknown, but the common guess to this unspoken rule was because usually the robber, plunderer or spy was on principle a dangerous sort and given to violence. Thankfully, Scott was not a violent type, but he certainly didn't appreciate the correction on his form. "I suppose you could do better then? You've had practice in this area maybe? I bet you've just had years and years to do this sort of work, being immortal and all."  
  
The chuckle grew into a laugh, and an odd laugh it was, unlike anything Scott Tyne had ever heard. Mateo seemed to be uncontrollably in humor, holding his sides and wiping stray tears from his twinkling eyes. "Hey! What's so funny about that? I was insulting you, you're not _supposed_ to laugh!"  
  
This addition just drove Mateo to further gales of pealing laughter. Scott continued to protest to the outburst, but it was to no avail.   
  
Finally, the laughing stranger had worked up enough breath to simply say, "You have no idea, my friend, no idea."  
  
---  
  
The feeling of laughter is a warmth much missed and is never quite appreciated until it returns after a long, mirthless winter. Legolas had not realized how much he had missed this forgotten pleasure, but was brought to awareness now as he was thrust back into the company of the mortal kind.   
  
  
They settled in a little known crevasse of the oddly placed high rising knoll - which in itself was a geological rarity in this portion of Texas and worthy of mention on the maps; the rolling land was farther east than Harris. On either side, the rocky crown of the rising of ground stumbled up to the heavens, jagged and casting long, lonesome shadows across the hillside.   
  
Legolas stood in a narrow niche, looking out down the slope and towards the town. No dust rose, no threat advanced. This worried him. Why did they not follow? He was loathe to pass it off for foolishness, but what else could he do? Jog into town and ask?  
  
"What's got your brow pinched like that?" The Tyne fellow was regarding him solemnly, Legolas's canteen resting in his hands.   
  
He folded his arms across his chest, leaning a shoulder against the red rock face. "They aren't following."   
  
There was a spluttering of water to his right, followed by harsh coughing. Scott blinked, thumping himself on the chest with a fist as he tried to clear his airway. "Tell me why this is a bad thing? Because as I see it, I'd rather not be having to run no more."  
  
It was obvious to Legolas that Scott had a few things yet to learn yet about a little thing called 'predictability'. He certainly had his work cut out for him. "They're planning something," he said more to himself than anyone. "We ran to the most logical place." The more he thought about it, the uneasier he became. What was their tactic?  
  
In the course of a minute and a half, Legolas had run over in his mind more than three dozen possible scenarios . They ranged from schemes played upon him in bygone years, to ones he had used. It was the last option that flittered across his memory that jogged an unpleasant thought.  
  
Rabbits. As silly as it might be, a fox and a rabbit came to mind. The fox, as crafty and sly as in the storybooks, would flush the prey out, finding his second entrance and snaring it as it fled. It was an ancient and time tried method, one as old as the world itself. The options for escaping this snare were few, either run into a trap, or be killed by whatever threat was used as the propellant into the snare.   
  
"We're moving." Legolas moved from his position on the rock, every muscle taut. The rifle on his back returned to his hands. Scott made motion to protest, but thought better of it at Legolas's serious expression. His own hand slipped to his hip.   
  
---  
  
Standing on the outskirts of the town, Godard had a magnificent view of the mountain - as it was called by the townsfolk. It rose solemnly from the level plain of scattered knolls, stately and aloof from the rest of its kind that were much lesser in stature.   
  
"Set her here."  
  
A team of horses, matched in color drew up beside him. A set of wheels groaned to a halt. Wrought from glossy black iron, the cannon was a fearsome thing to behold even on its lonesome. The team was unhitched, both animals jerking their heads and dancing eagerly away from the monstrous weapon, it was as if they knew all too well what it was.   
  
"Where do you want 'er aimed, mister?" said the older man, whose face was lined from brow to chin with deep folds of age. Somehow, by either the extravagant tale he expanded upon at each telling, or by a more shady way, he had gotten his hands on an old, but very much operational cannon. It was his pride and the object upon which he swore any oath worth swearing. Unfortunately, his chances to actually fire the weapon were few and far between, as well as often illegal. So when Godard's accomplices had come to him with a request to see it in action, he hadn't asked a question whatsoever. Ignorance was the key.   
  
Godard gave a generic wave to the rocky crown. "Ah, anywhere up there will do." He smiled, patting the old man on the shoulder. "I'm looking forward to seeing how far this thing actually shoots."  
  
Beside him, Fredrick - a tall man, narrow-faced and shifty-eyed - moved to his ear. Godard leaned over slightly, a relaxed smile still hazarding his face, then in a low voice he asked, "Are we positioned?"  
  
Fredrick nodded. "They're hidden and ready to make a run around to the back of that ol' mountain when the fire goes off. No one will notice."  
  
A crowd was growing, curious as to what exactly was happening. Godard turned, his hands raised to gain attention. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called, waiting a moment for the crowd to quiet, "Just so no alarm is caused, this is just a bit of entertainment provided by our good man here." He nodded to the old man who staggered about the cannon, securing the gun in place. "I think this town needs a bit livening up, don't you?"  
  
Unsure glances were cast about, one or two agreements sounded off from the younger generation and some disapproving grunts came from the elder. But no argument was raised; the explanation seemed to sate their curiosity.   
  
The ball was loaded, the powder poured, then a wick was struck.   
  
---  
  
"Mind telling me what ant got up your britches?"  
  
Legolas frowned, trying to decide whether or not to ignore Tyne. "The one that will eat you whole," he muttered half under his breath, just loud enough for Scott to overhear. "Those men," he started, "aren't going to let you get away without at least attempting to bring you back in, dead or alive."   
  
"They already tried, and they failed. Easy as that." Scott slid down another ledge on the seat of his pants, wincing as his finger jammed in a crack. "I'm just too darn fast for them."  
  
An honest to goodness snort escaped Legolas for once as he picked his way down a steep decline.   
  
"Hey," Scott shook his finger, as if it would aid in relieving pain. "Don't snort at me, it's true after all. Even if - "  
  
Legolas suddenly stopped mid-step, looking up and around. A split second later, the rocks thundered in response to a violent report, too deep and too loud to be any other than...  
  
For the second time in one day, Scott found himself thrown to the ground. But a moment later, there was a crack and then a greater rumbling as the corner of the rock bluff exploded in a shower of shale and debris. Legolas rolled to his feet as the rock ceased to fall. "Get up! We can't stop here, if we stop, they'll pin us in for sure!"  
  
A mad rush down the mountain followed, sliding much of the way - some more gracefully than others. Soon another shot was fired, the projectile hissing over their heads, unseen but heard, an angry warning. The earth exploded a short ways in front of them, forcing them to back pedal.  
  
"Do not stop!" Legolas warned again, springing back down the slope with the agility of a mountain sheep. Scott followed, slipping, sliding, and generally creating a dust cloud that threatened to engulf him. "They're trying to deter us."  
  
"You don't think I know that?" Scott cried from behind, "But that's being bright about the situation, I mean, they're just lobbing iron balls at us, by gum! Nothing to worry about probably, we'll be buried on impact, no mess either!" he continued irately. "How convenient, eh?" Scott's tirade was put to an abrupt halt as the ground exploded to his right.   
  
Legolas slowed his decent, glancing back over his shoulder. Scott had picked himself up and was continuing to scramble down after him. They were nearing the level ground. Reassured, Legolas put his mind back to the task at hand, or at least tried to. But the sight of the horsemen rounding the bend from behind the cover of the mountain put a new meaning to speed.   
  
For a moment, Legolas considered an attempt to go back the way they had just come and try to hide in the crags, but it was one that was hastily dashed by a glance backwards. He still had one option, however.  
  
The whistle was shrill and keening, it was like a beacon of sound, radiating out from where he stood. The riders were not the only ones that heard it.   
  
His heels dug into the loose shale, bringing him to sharp halt. He had only to wait a moment now. The rifle that had remained gripped in his hands swung up to his shoulder. The riders moved around the bend, turning as a body upon sighting them.  
  
He didn't divert his attention as they drew nearer, his finger on the trigger remaining motionless. Scott skidded to a stop beside him, casting a glance at the advancing posse and to Legolas, who stayed so very still with and eye slightly squinted. "I hope you've been practicing mounting on the run."  
  
Scott could only gulp.  
  
TBC...  
  
A/N: Hullo! Ah-ha, no more of that nasty mush and dull recollection stuff, eh? Yes, I suppose I should have saved a bit of this action for other chapters, but the more, the better I say. Plenty more where this came from, to be sure.   
  
daw the minstrel - Well, I had to pay tribute somewhere to dear Bill. Thanks for being such a faithful reviewer, does boo-coodles for one's writing. ;)  
  
Kay - Ah, you hit on it! I was originally going to do that story, but thought better to start here. I've got so many ideas for more like this one and this one will probably need a sequel of some sort. I'll have to wait and record that tale until the characters share with me their story in full. They're being quite quite about that part of their life and I'm being kept in suspense with you as well! And yes, I did have fun with that phrase. It just wrote itself. Hope the discription of the Elf becomes clearer with each chapter. Thanks for all the kind words!  
  
brat64 - Forgive the wait on this one, I've had it written for some time, my BetaMom just never had time to check it out. Yes, must thank both Tux and Mom for their help. Very releaved that you approve of the image of Legolas that I'm painting as well, and as for his hat, well, he just came with it when he came to tell me the story. ;) Hat's have such character. Thanks for being such a great supporter!  
  
Waiting eagerly for your responses,  
Bill


	4. Burning Bridges

**Right Side of Justice**  
_Chapter 4 –Burning Bridges  
  
_The first shot was fired by the Elf, thudding into its target without error.   
  
"That's your ride Scott!" Legolas cried, head whipping around as another whinny bugled to his left, distinguishable as unique only by him.   
  
Scott hardly noticed his agile companion's cry as, with feline grace, Mateo swung onto the bare horse's back. The horses came on terrifyingly fast, every lunging pace drilling Scott's adrenaline higher. The riderless horse followed her head, with neck stretched low and eyes wide. Beat, beat - his heart pumped in time with her hooves. His mind was nearly made up - but not quite – when she was upon him.   
  
By grace, more than luck, his hands reached out and caught the pommel of the saddle, fingers latching with a death grip under the swell. His feet were instantly swept off the solid ground as the horse plunged headlong, giving only crow's hop in an attempt to rid herself of the hitchhiker. The speed of the horse pulled him along, feet dashing against the hard earth. He scrambled to get just one flat-footed moment in order to gain momentum upwards, but it seemed a hopeless venture.   
  
It was an ill-fated mistake that while he held on with a white-knuckled grip, his wide eyes caught a clear glimpse of the churning hooves of the driven horses. They meant death to any that were caught beneath them. Fear suddenly overrode adrenaline. His fingers were becoming slick with sweat. Life, or what was left of it, looked rather dismal.  
  
Then a rider fell into pace beside him, pinning him in with no room to swerve his horse, even if he managed to secure a seat in the saddle. He dared not look at the rider's face, although a rebellious streak told him to at least glare or acknowledge the face of his killer before the blow struck. But no hand fell to shove him away, in fact it was quite the opposite; instead it grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hefting him with a mighty jerk. It was just enough of a boost to set Scott in a very good place - the seat of the saddle. He glanced left, this time not at all surprised to see the masked face of that strange Mateo riding along side him. He had pulled his bandana into place, but one could hardly forget those odd, glittering eyes.   
  
All this takes quite a lot of saying, but happened in little more than a few minutes - enough time in which to utterly confuse the dim-witted riders by weaving in and around them. Mateo had flung himself onto Toril's back and dodged in amongst the herd, like a gnat, heard, but not seen, impossible to be rid of no matter how much one swatted.    
  


  
The riders, dense as they were, could not be befuddled much longer. Mateo jerked his head back, making a motion with his hands as if he were pulling back on invisible reins, though as Scott realized, he rode with no harnessing. He repeated this motion, gesturing to Scott's mount. Shouting was a useless effort over the thunder of the horses' progress. Realization dawned.   
  
Scott leaned his weight back in the saddle, reining the horse in from her uncontrollable flight. The mare tossed her head, fighting against the bit and trying at all costs to unset her rider. Scott didn't back down, using all his weight to bring the horse under control.   
  
Despite her unwillingness, the deceleration was dramatic as the rest of the herd drove forward, only just beginning to realize that their prey was dropping behind _them_. Sparing no moment to give the horse time to register her defeat, Scott spun the beast around, prodding her flanks. The energy she harbored could not be contained and she sprang out after Toril, who with Legolas, was already flying over the plain.   
  
  
The unwieldy horses of the posse fought as a body, unwilling to go a step slower as the riders tugged at the reins in a vital attempt to make chase after the duo, who were even now becoming specks in the distance. When their horses finally stopped, angry and ill tempered, both horse and man looked back at their lost prey.  
  
Insult was added to injury when over the settling air came laughing voices and a bright, free whinny.  
  
---  
  
Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.  
  
From one wall to the other Benito paced with hands clenching before him, kneading the palms - and for variety - drumming his fingers on his forearms. He was all too aware that the sky that had given to night what seemed an age ago and was now lightening again in the east. Grey was the horizon and the stars had winked from sight. Still there was no sign of Mateo's return.   
  
Thirty-one.  
  
The situation was growing out of hand. Mateo seemed confident in what action to take, but what was Benito supposed to do while he was out and about doing great deeds? There were no horses to tend to, no corrals to muck, not even troughs to fill. If there was one thing that drove him to distraction, it was the idleness of his hands.   
  
Thirty-two.  
  
What should he do then? Rob a bank perhaps? Bah!   
  
Oh, how he hated feeling so useless. For all he knew, Harris could be up in flames by now and the big city Austin following suit. This was, after all, Mateo. Nothing was quite without possibility where he was concerned.   
  
Thirty-three.  
  
Benito stopped at the window. The sky was even brighter now, the land turning an eerie, muted grey, lying in limbo between waking and sleeping. From the window he watched the mare's head sway slightly as she dozed on her feet, eyes half-lidded and one hock bent. Then he saw the saddle, still set on its horn with the blanket draped across the skirt.   
  
His lips pursed, a hand coming up to stroke a corner of his over-grown mustache, eyes roving from tack to horse. There was _that_ option of course. He liked _that_ option.  
  
  
Within ten minutes, he was passing through the gate, leaving the vacant ranch behind. Mateo wasn't going far without him. Alas, who would feed the boy?  
  
---  
  
Godard had lost them; it was a humiliation he did not take lightly. No one dared broach the subject while he was within the vicinity if they placed any value upon their hide. Yet Godard spent no time pampering his damaged pride. That was not in his nature. If he failed - which did not happen often - he attacked again with more ferocity than before. This was his strength and partially the reason he had risen from a position of no acclaim to where he stood now. A regime of straight collared discipline with an iron fist was his driving scourge that flailed the backs of his subordinates. Not entirely dishonorable traits in themselves, only when abused to a shameable end. Though he did not see it as such.   
  
In the traditional way of every memorable antagonist, he would waste no time in hunting the rebels out, then literally smoke them from their holes. Depending on the sagacity of his quarry, the length of this process was an unknown element in his deviations. Still, it was entirely necessary. The more speed the better. They were yet two, Godard thought, and two could both be easy to squash beneath his thumb, or a terrible biting nuisance that darted in beneath his nose to strike stinging blows not easily foiled.  He feared the latter if yesterday's demonstration was any indication of the future.   
  
Putting this from his mind and setting his task firmly as his forethought, the following morning he was mounted again in the saddle. From the town he and six others rode, drawing many curious glances from the shop windows and boardwalks.   
  
They were riding back the way they had come but a few bygone mornings. The way was still fresh in his mind and the mental image of the humble ranch was engrained hatefully in his memory. Godard loathed it; it stood for a failure on his behalf. He detested failure.   
  
All would be burned, burning away his failure as he came one step closer to finishing this little side trip.   
  
---  
  
"We won't be able to do this alone, that's for certain." Scott picked at his teeth with a thumbnail. He remained in his reclined position by what he deemed his rock, while Legolas moved from horse to horse, running a hand over a leg there, picking up a hoof here, making a last minute check of Scott's tack. "He'll be coming after us one of these days."   
  
"Oh," Legolas tapped Toril's withers thoughtfully, "I think they'll be coming a lot sooner than that."   
  
Scott shrugged, at this point in his relationship with the strange Mateo, he felt rather invincible after the feats his new friend had demonstrated. "I suppose though, now that we've actually had a breather, you'll want to take a look at the evidence you were hankering after." There was a smirk on his face, one that spoke plainly of his self-assurance and cocky bravado.   
  
Legolas straightened from Toril's right side, setting the hoof back to the ground. Reaching over the horse's withers, he took the rather worn and bedraggled sheet from Scott.   
  
He tore it up. He never even looked at it.  
  
Scott was in a state of severe shock, left gaping and stuttering indistinct grunts of disbelief. Legolas smiled slightly, reaching for his hat hooked on the horn of Scott's saddle. "Oh," he said nonchalantly for the second time, "don't worry about it. I think I have my evidence." The hat came to settle in its appropriate place with a tug to the brim.   
  
Of all the injustices, this had to be the worst yet in Scott's befuddled mind. He had risked life and limb for the horrid scrap and what does the fool do? Shred it with a humorous air.   
  
Legolas on the other hand saw it as a lesson that must be taught. Whether Scott realized it or not he could not say, but the lesson remained the same. Tyne was a man that took great pride in his accomplishments and in turn expected others to take the same appreciation. Arrogance would do neither of them any good. It was the stumbling block for many of these men of the West and it caused more harm than simply damaged pride. Blood was oft' the selfish redemption of their own folly.   
  
Swinging up onto Toril, Legolas tossed the mare's reins to Scott. "You are not doing any good just standing there, mount up and let us keep moving." It would be best not to give Scott any time to contemplate the recent events.  
  
Dumbly, Scott followed Legolas' example.   
  
---  
  
Despite Scott's great protestations, they were traveling in a backward arc; retracing their steps in a roundabout way towards the bluff they had holed themselves up in previously. It was Legolas' thinking that for a brief re-gathering of their senses, the safest place would be right under the nose of their antagonist. This was a well-known tactic, but he was laying his life on the hope that Godard was the sort far too clever for his own good – and knew it, therefore overestimating his own cleverness. All very convoluted, he knew, so he gave no effort to fully explain his thought to Scott.   
  
Unfortunately, once they made it to their destination, Legolas had no clear idea what would be the next order of business.  It wasn't as if they could storm a keep, rescue a hostage, or simply take the old fashioned way of eliminating the enemy. No, times had brought with it something such as "government" – an unpleasant, but necessary evil. True, even in the golden years of Legolas' life there had been such a thing, though called by a different name, but Men have since changed their ways - perhaps because they now lacked the respect for a higher authority. The old saying goes: "Power corrupts", but authoritative evil was about as bad as it could get.   
  
So what were they to do? He still had no answer as they dismounted and led their horses around the back of the slope, out of sight.   
  
"So my brilliant companion, where will we strike our terror next?"   
  
"I have no idea." Honesty after all, had never prompted deceit.   
  
Scott stopped in his tracks; the mare – now dubbed Demonia for lack of creativity and affection on the man's part – jerked her head up, avoiding collision. "'Scuse me? My ears must really be clogged up with sand from that tumble down the hill the other day." He began to laugh nervously. "For a moment there I thought you said you had no idea." Laughter turned uproarious – though no less forced. "How silly of me."  
  
"While I am not going to dispute the sand, it did not hinder you from hearing truthfully."   
  
Vacancy took up residence in Scott's eyes.   
  
Legolas brushed a hand across his sleeve, an act of substitution for the lack of action or 'doing-ness'. "This does give you a chance to show your mettle and the ingenuity that you have been so keen of reminding me you possess." He couldn't help adding this jibe. After all, he had only spent the past twenty-four hours, at least, listening to Scott's incessant marathon mouth. During these times, Legolas had practiced the infamous art of "mind-melting" that Aragorn schooled him through in the days subsequent to the War of the Ring. It was a practice that the Ranger had adopted after finding that with enough _little_ concentration, he could quite efficiently tune out the droning speeches of the dignitaries when his patience wore to the point of obliteration. This saved him both hair and dignity.   
  
This technique would normally be named "day-dreaming", but "mind-melting" had been coined by Aragorn's young son when his beloved and adored father "mind-melted" right in the middle of a lecture from his wife on the very subject. Eldarion, his son, had tugged at Arwen's maroon skirts and informed her that "Father is doing it again."   
  
"Doing what?" she had asked, directing her attention to her offspring.   
  
Eldarion had stuck a thumb between his teeth (a very naughty habit they were trying to break) and pointed with his free hand. Speaking around the digit he had said, "Father's mind melted again."  
  
Thus, the name had been adopted.  
  
Now Legolas was sure he had perfected mind-melting.   
  
Scott spluttered for a count, saying nothing at all worth repeating. Eventually he managed, "Those are stories! Don't you know that every outlaw is suppose tell stories like that?" This was his first cognizant collection of words.   
  
An eyebrow twitched. "Really, now? So your daring escapade through a jungle in South Africa was all a figment of your imagination?"  
  
More spluttering. "Well, I didn't say that exactly."  
  
"Then it is true?"  
  
"Well, no."  
  
"Then it isn't?"  
  
"I didn't say that either!"  
  
"You just did." Legolas tapped his chin, "Either they are true, or they are not. An expansion on the truth is still a lie."  
  
"Oh, why must you be such a monk, Mateo?" Scott cried in frustration. "Why don't you just shave the top of your head and find yourself a halo. I'm sure I can find you some very nice monasteries in one state or another."  
  
"Scott, you're wandering off topic."  
  
"I am not getting off topic," Scott insisted adamantly, gesturing wildly. "But if I am, why don't we get back on topic by busting through some bar doors in usual outlaw fashion and blasting holes in the roof for effect. At least we'd be doing something."  
  
They were trudging angularly up the slope - Scott sweating profusely and Legolas not at all - when the latter stopped and clamped a hand over his toiling companion's mouth. Scott obediently froze, eyes panning in his head.   
  
Eyes fixed but staring at nothing, the Elf stood stock-still. "Fire. There is smoke on the air."  
  
Pushing the hand aside, Scott visibly sniffed the air. He smelled nothing, except his own not-so-pleasant essence. Then again, his olfactory had never been quite up to par.   
  
Legolas started off again at a good clip up the gradually loosening footing. There was no visibility at their current position, if he could only reach the ridge…  
  
Then he was there and saw quite plainly from where the smoke arose. South-east, a dark column brooded over the Texas landscape. It rose from well past Harris and beyond the other small family ranches dotting the perimeter of easy accessibility to the town. He and Benito were the only ones that lived in that direction.  
  
He really couldn't be surprised. Once he set foot into this conflict, he had given up what semblance of security he had gathered around himself as a barrier in these past years. To cross authority meant blacklisting one's name. One was thereafter named an outlaw.   
  
Legolas cared not for his reputation; reputations were easily changed when one led a nomadic and enigmatic life such as his. It was ironic really, the timing of the current events. He had spent a good number of years here on the outskirts of Harris, more than he had in any other location. Why? Well, it certainly wasn't because he enjoyed the scenery. Nor was it connected to sentimental value as his stay in the forests and dales of Europe had been. Was it his one friendship? Perhaps. Or was it to be attributed to that nagging sense of a purpose yet to be fulfilled? Whatever it was, he was certain that all would become clear at one point or another.   
  
There was a great wheezing beside him as Scott sidled up next to him. "Hmm, shouldn't wonder if that's the work of another one of those cow-pie brained, baby-toothed youngsters running loose when they should be back home being swatted into obedience by their pa." That was his analysis upon seeing the angry smoke.   
  
Legolas gave no sign of amusement. He simply stood there, worrying not for his property, but for another greater investment of mortality.   
  
---  
  
Harris was in the immediate distance, a lump of odd shaped roofs and men. The sun was still rising behind Benito as he rode, climbing slowly up to her throne. His and the horse's shadow were cast long before them, abstractly stretched. He didn't notice these things though, as his attention was focused only on the four men on horseback, waiting for him but a few lopes away. No smile was on their sun-beaten faces.   
  
As he drew nearer, Benito regretted his decision to cut his path closer to the town than he had first intended for the sake of time. Foolish it had been of him since he had no time constraint really. He was also beginning to regret the absence of a gun on his person. But then again, the likeliness of his ability to use it efficiently was close to null.   
  
He hailed them when he came with spitting distance. "Morning to you lads."  He did not add the usual, "What can I do for you" as that was on normal circumstances an indication that one would be glad to do what he could for the other. Benito was a man of truth – on occasion – and hardly thought he'd_ want _to help these four grim faced men.   
  
It was the man farthest to the right of the four that answered. His face was neither smooth nor young; he seemed the sort of man that had been often lead down the path to great despair, which had hardened his beliefs after the immediate tribulation had past.  "It depends."  
  
Benito asked the obvious questions. "Depends on what?"  
  
"On whether or not you'll cooperate."  
  
He had but to cast one second glance at their faces to make up his mind. A fervent nod, "Oh sí," he coughed, "not that I seem to have much of a choice in the matter."   
  
"Then lead us to the Phantom."  
  
"Phantom…" Benito trailed off, trying to peg in his memory of just whom they spoke. "Phantom," he repeated to himself.   
  
"I know what I said old man, just take us to him," the hard faced man snapped.  
  
A bell rang almost audibly in Benito's mind. Phantom! Of course he knew whom they meant. Mateo was often being referred to through such ghostly names in town gossip. When realization dawned, then came the warning claxons just as the bell had. "What business might you have with him?"  
  
"Business. That's all you need to know." Two of the man's companions moved to flank him with their horses, penning him between them.   
  
Cursing foully to himself, Benito didn't back off on his questions. "Business you say? That's not very specific. I'd really rather know what you want with him. I mean, fellows, it's obvious you already know this, but I am quite fond of your "Phantom" and would rather not betray him to any that schemed to do him wrong."   
  
"Quit your blathering old man and get on. We never said anything about any wrong doing, now did we?" The man paused, eyeing Benito sourly before surprising him by saying: "If you must know, we're – the four of us – sick and tired of Godard's swindling. Don't gape old man, that brash young fool Tyne mentioned his plans to us, told us how to look for him if we changed our minds." He scowled deeply, "Well I have, as all four of us have."   
  
Benito gnawed a knuckle anxiously. "The serpent in the garden spoke just as convincingly as you, but look where it landed Adam and us lot."   
  
"It's your decision, but if you steer us wrong, you'll be no more to us than one of Godard's fools – barely worthy of death."  
  
"You certainly aren't the compromising sort," Benito muttered, just loud enough for his flankers to hear. "Well then, let's be off," he said louder, prodding his dozing mare. "But don't be too trigger happy if we wind up lost. I'm nearly as bewildered as you when it comes to ol' "Phantom's location."  
  
---  
  
Ravenous flames consumed the humble abode as though it were no more than brittle parchment. The stench of smoke wafted towards his nostrils, as blood to a shark. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smell as if it were a fine wine. It was the scent of control. Control came with assurance for Godard's conniving mind.   
  
Oh, he would find them. He would hound them until death came for their last breaths.  
  
He could afford no less.   
  
---  
  
A/N: So sorry for the delay. Christmas is coming, and I'm trying my best not to get caught up in the headlong rush of it all. I feel even worse that it's such a short, and rather pointless chapter. But again, things that needed to be said, were said, and hopefully next time we'll be able to get onto more meaty stuff – such as a **_plot_**perhaps?  
  
Gack.  
  
Kitty2228 – I'm much obliged to you, and I do hope that your fingers aren't too raw from hanging on the somewhat shallow, but cliffhanger none the less. Maybe this ending was more to your liking. Looking forward to see what you think about this chapter!  
  
Brat64 – Glad to hear you're enjoying Scott. I rather like him myself. I certainly don't pride myself on OCs, and generally I would like to stray from them as much as possible (not that you would know from my previous stories *eye roll*), but as it usually happens, I couldn't get away without him. And don't worry about the rambling, it's quite all right to ramble. Hope your arms are getting a relief now!  
  
YunaDax – Splendiferous…what is it about that word that sends me chuckling? Be good, and don't read at work – but do leave feedback!  
  
Tinnuial – Refreshing? Oh! How relieved I am. The last thing I want this to be is old and over used.  As for the cameo aspect, that has been brought up in some conversations while brainstorming with random people. However, I'm not exactly sure if that will work out in the aspect of things. Perhaps in later pieces *Wink* I'll throw them in – though I will make it known that I'm quite uncomfortable writing either of them. I suppose it's because I simply don't have the confidence that I can portray them in the right manner. But then that brings up Legolas and why I would ever dream that I can portray him correctly. Sheesh, there goes my reasoning. Thanks for your kind comments.  
  
Kay – Prequel: ack! I can hardly think of such things at the moment. I just hope I can get through this one first! Hang on, there will be more action to come.  
  
JastaElf – Yes, happy indeed. I just wish someone else would take the idea and run with it as I hardly think I can do it justice. I'm sweating over it every time I think of it.   
  
This hat thing will be the death of me. I should start a website or something featuring Mateo's – er, I mean Legolas' – hat. Yeesh. Insanity. And don't even bring up the Will Turner Musketeer hat, or just hand the barf bag right over. Exactly the same, I tell you. I can't fathom it. How could a film with a none too spindly budget re-use the exact (or nearly) same hat? It confounds me! Inconceivable, in the words of one certain Sicilian.  
  
Don't let me forget to congratulate you on your nomination while I'm at this! Great job.  
  
Daw the Minstrel – Yup, I pictured Legolas still quite refined and 'spiffy' even as the years passed over him. Perhaps a bit more refined even than before, but still the same hero.   
  
I'm reluctant to say that unfortunately Scott is not a historical personage. Entirely made up, though with characteristics pulled from various legendary sorts of the American West.   
  
Thanks for keeping up with this venture so positively.   
  
Bill  
  
  
  



	5. The Speaking of a Name

**Right Side of Justice_  
_**_Chapter 5 - The Speaking of a Name_**_  
  
_**The professionals state that it takes fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown. However, they fail to mention gravity and the natural downward pull. Bryne – as Benito found the rough faced man to be called after brief introductions – knew this, or so his face told.   
  
He'd never had a holiday in all his forty-five years and likely would not until he grew too stiff to guide a plow or raise a herd. That would be the way he'd wish to die if it came to that and the Lord Almighty tarried. No use dying in a blaze of fire and glory when one is young, cutting short a lifetime of good labor.   
  
But like any mortal man, their came a limit to patience and longsuffering. To put it mildly, Bryne's range of tolerance stopped at the vandalism and thievery of his own property. He wasn't sure which sin was worse, the destruction of his homestead, or the larceny of his few but sturdy horses.  
  
If he were inclined to look towards the brighter side and let be what was, Bryne could take comfort in knowing his stock were spared from a brutal death – only because of his absence - and he was in not a bad place financially – though in the same breath, not well off either. Hopefully though, it has been brought to the reader's attention by now that Bryne was neither a citizen willing to be abused in the name of politics nor a man of complacency.   
  
It could also be assumed that he was a man prone to abstinence from worldly pleasures, but it should be understood that he was not ignorant of its ways. 

Here is where the two stories intertwine. Already it has been told that Legolas, otherwise known as Mateo, was often the gossip of such gatherings for the sharing of the very same 'worldly pleasures', furthermore, no ear could quite block out the tall tales told of Harris' own, genuine phantom. Not even Bryne's.   
  
Since all legends begin with some root in truth – no matter how slender – the same must be applied to those tales 'retold' around a hand of cards. Bryne knew this as well as the next person did.   
  
To continue the narration after this point would be a waste of good words. One can guess quite easily without much strain what happened subsequently. It is enough to say that with a stray, tentative hope, Bryne gathered the few (the three) trusted friends he had and put his question to them. Would they come with him to search out the one who might have the tenacity to take on a hoard of self-serving "legal" scum in the name of justice?  
  
As it is to be guessed, Bryne's three and only friends threw in their hats for the gamble which could quite literally be the biggest risk of their life.  
  
Bryne rode a few paces behind their guide, his attention split between their path and the surroundings. The sun had climbed only slightly higher since their paths crossed. A rare breeze had kicked up, puffing gamely inland from the coast. Still, little respite from the heat came in its wake.   
  
"Whenever any of you lads feel like taking the lead, just plow ahead. Don't mind me."   
  
They were getting nowhere in good time, the mountain looming above them. Bryne narrowed his eyes, casting them towards the peak. "Keep moving, and do keep that smile on your face. I would rather not come to a needless end because of a misunderstanding of intentions."  
  
There was a muffled groan from the Mexican.  
  
---  
  
During the foresaid, a pair of keener eyes tracked the four and Benito's progress.  Legolas crouched in the deepest shadow of the cleft, having also beckoned for Scott to do likewise. Men had such things now in this age that aided them in far seeing. He saw no such tools in the hands of the four accompanying Benito, but he didn't wish to take the chance of being seen.   
  
The rider at the rear lifted up a hand to his face. Out of instinct, Legolas pressed himself deeper into the shadows. But no, he had simply been shading his eyes while staring straight in their general direction. Legolas remained still until the hand fell back to the man's side and his face tipped downward.   
  
Scott shifted on his perch, wincing at the sharp pains of numbness beginning to prick at the back of his legs from the awkward position. From his location he could see nothing but the open land stretching beyond the edges of Harris. It was a quite frustrating place to be in when all he could do was watch Mateo's face for any sign of alarm or relief. A breath of displeasure unsettled the fine dirt near his cheek. "Do you recognize them at all?"  
  
Mateo's eyes flitted over to Scott for a moment in acknowledgement. "Aye, the one leading them is a close confidant of mine."  
  
"Do you suppose he has betrayed you?"  
   
Before the thought was finished, Mateo shook his head adamantly. "Betrayal would never be Benito's intent."   
  
His eyebrows peaked at this mention. "Benito, you say? You mean the old man with all the stories that pops in for a drink now and then? Do you think that those fellows have gone and forced him to aid them? Godard's men you think?" Scott failed to notice the slow deliberate look of tried patience.   
  
"Waiting to see always seems to produce the best results in finding answers."  
  
Scott resisted the urge to strangle himself with his own sarcasm.   
  
---  
  
Loose shale bounced down the slope behind them, a small-scale avalanche. Benito leaned his weight forward to relieve some of the backward pull on his toiling horse. He hated shortcuts. They usually allotted little extra time and plenty of discomfort. He would have much rather taken the longer, less difficult route around the slope. That was in his most humble opinion, but as it was, humble opinions didn't count for much when in his position of authority. Pity, that.   
  
The quiet was also beginning to wear on his nerves. Oh, he was quite used to silence, being the only other speaking soul in residence at Mateo's ranch, still, there were many different types of silence – this being one of the unpleasant category. "So, if it so happens that our friend is not at the top of this infernal hill, then where would you suppose he might be?"    
  
"How should I know?" answered Bryne from the rear in a perturbed voice. "You know him better than I do. Where do you think he'd be?"  
  
Benito slouched forward, falling into a self-righteous sulk. _How should I know? _He muttered mentally. _It's not as if he's the normal sort and it's hardly as if anyone could actually really _know _that bugger. Very strange, that boy. For all we know, he could be riding amongst us without our being aware of it.   
  
_Suddenly self-conscious, Benito craned his neck over his shoulder. No, nothing there, only that sullen faced Bryne and his companions.   
  
His horse waggled his head from side to side, tugging on the reins, bringing Benito's attention back on center. Pulling unhappily, Benito coaxed his equally unhappy horse to bear right as they neared the rocky crown.   
  
Benito gulped. _If he be up here, please Lord, don't let him feel overly…vengeful, and shoot us on sight.  
  
_---  
  
"Whatever you do, do _not_ fire." Legolas ordered quietly. Scott stared agape. "They would hear it in the town," he explained. Scott still bore a shallow expression, causing Legolas to blow a strained sigh. "They would hear it in the town," he repeated, then added, "bringing our friend Godard's explosive nature down upon us."  
  
Scott's jaw clicked shut with an, "Oh," and a "fine."   
  
After baying the horses to retreat, he motioned with a hand, moving around the rock face that looked down towards Harris. Tipping his head around the corner, he saw the last horse's tail pass from view. Silent upon the loose rocks, Legolas brought them directly behind their pursuers. They were nearly back where they had started. Legolas pressed his back against the warming stone, rifle angled across his chest.   
  
Shale crunched under heavy boots as the rider at the rear dismounted. Voices followed.  
  
"What do you make of it?"  
   
The footsteps drew nearer, then withdrew, then returned.  
  
"They've definitely been here - and recently. Their horses went..." the voice trailed off to more footsteps, "…this way." Those still mounted began to follow the one on the ground.  
  
A hoof landed half an arm's reach from his right. Having fallen into a low crouch in the shadow of the stone at his back, the man had but to glance a little downwards and they would be seen – but as it so happened, Fate was in an amiable mood that day. Legolas fervently hoped nothing would occur that would sour that pleasant disposition.  
  
When to act, that was the question. Should they listen longer? Move now? When would it be too late? Legolas' experiences could only help his decision making so much, for each scenario was different. Intuition would be the best dice to trust for the moment – he hoped.    
  
That same intuition was prompting him to do something in the near future. His hands tightened about the rifle and he swallowed.   
  
"You know," he could hear Benito's voice pipe up from out of sight, "perhaps you should announce yourselves." He coughed, "I don't mean to alarm you boys, but the lad's the type that goes unseen. You understand I'm sure." Benito bobbed his eyebrows and pantomimed, implying that there could be a less than healthy end.  
  
There was a pause in the hoof steps. Legolas saw in his mind the men making eye contact with each other in silent conference. "Fine," was the less than amiable response. The speaker cleared his throat, feet shifting in an uneasy manner. Legolas felt a twinge of amused pity for the leader as there followed furtive whispers of encouragement and suggestions. Knowing the general mindset of the men in these parts, it had to be a terribly discomforting situation. Addressing a "being" – as the rumors had yet to settle on exactly _what _he, Legolas, was – unseen and unknown to actually be there listening? If that wasn't the stuff town gossip was made of…  
  
Clearing his throat once again, the voice spoke out, never-the-less assured in tone.  "If you be there, Stranger, we come on an errand of good will," he spoke diplomatically, Legolas noted with a faint, subconscious nod of approval- diplomatic to the extent possible for this sort of folk. "So," the speaker went on tentatively, "if you'd come out nice like – if you're there – then we could talk things out face to face."   
  
Legolas felt Scott's eyes on him. The young man was nervous, his finger tapping soundlessly on his thigh. It was a puzzle to Legolas; sometimes Scott seemed so like what he imagined a young, impetuous Aragorn might have been like if raised in this day and age before he had learned that caution was certainly not his enemy, while at other times, he mirrored shockingly Gimli's optimism in regard to battle. Now if only he could teach Scott how to bridle that energy and put it to good use at the opportune moment…  
  
"The horses' tracks lead back 'round the rocks. They probably aren't even here anymore," said a low voice. They had moved out of sight again and from what Legolas could interpret from their speech, the horses had taken to leading them on a merry chase about the hilltop. None could say they weren't clever beasts.  But their ingenuity did have a limit – after all, these were not elvish horses. So 'round the hilltop they did lead, until in full circle they caught up with their riders from behind.  Scott made a motion towards them, working on the perfection of the soundless grunt and turning a pleasant shade of pink.    
  
Here it was that a fortunate thing happened, although at the time it seemed not so fortunate. While in an effort to persuade the horses to relocate, Scott, partially by intention, stepped far enough from the cover of the rock to catch a clear view of their hunters. In return, the hunters were also given a clear view of Scott.   
  
Legolas had made a grab at Scott, but it was too late.  One with red hair stood up in his saddle, pointed directly at Scott and cried: "You, Tyne!"  
  
Though the reader may well be aware of Scott's positive affiliation with the one named Bryne, learned in earlier discourse, Legolas knew nothing of this, intuitive though he be. Placing himself between Scott and the riders, he challenged them in a clear, commanding voice. "If you come in good will, then here you may prove it."  
  
"Hold on a moment Mateo, they ain't on the baddies' side."  Scott stepped around Legolas, giving his shoulder a condescending pat. "These fellows here are genuine roughers," he said, accentuating the individual syllables in _gen-u-ine_.   
  
"A merry chase you've lead us on," exclaimed the red headed one. "Made us shanghai this nice old man here, just to find you."   
  
Benito looked peeved, gnawing a knuckle and casting sulphurous looks at the red head.    
  
The one on the ground approached, admirably wary, regarding Legolas with an appraising eye. "You go in company with Tyne; you're the one who he spoke of?" Legolas nodded. "My name is Bryne. If you've taken to bringing the lawmen to their rightful place, then I'll be glad to follow your lead."   
  
Legolas took the brawny hand, feeling the calluses and scars chaff against his palm. He studied the other's face, looking hard past the exterior. Here was a man in whom he could place infallible trust. Here was a man with the virtues of the ancients of Legolas' age.   
  
Legolas smiled then, a small smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth, but changed his whole countenance. To his great pleasure, Bryne smiled back.   
  
It was than that Legolas did something he had not dared to do for this world's lifetime.   
  
"I am called Legolas."  
  
**TBC…**  
  
_A/N: Argh, sorry a bushel of times over. I suppose I should try an cover my failure by a tiny excuse. I actually did have this chapter written some time ago, but events just kept getting in the way of posting. That actually makes it worse me thinks. Bah, I don't even give you wonderful folks a longer chapter. Just ended it's self again. And _still _no action. I stink. Royally. But I'm trying above all else to work some into the next chapter.   
  
James8 – You probably didn't think I'd ever update again after this span. Yeesh. Hopefully you didn't keel over.  
Myst – I am so, so, sorry. I don't think I'll ever be able to live up to the "post at least once a week" regime. If only… But yeah, unfortunately, I think I'll have to continue these odd 'modern times' fics with  who knows, Civil War, World Wars, times in between, maybe Legolas work for the mafia, or ends up putting a mafia head out of business. Woo, there's an idea.  
  
Brat64 – I concur, I enjoy throwing in some touches from the Middle-earth we know. I don't want this to totally lose that flavor, and I find those looks back help to remind the reader, or me, that "oh yeah, this is Legolas of the Fellowship we're talking about here."   
  
Tyne has a little angst section in the next chapter. Humorous angst moment, but one none the less, I'll probably add to it – just for you. ;)  
  
Kay – I will do all in my power to finish this. I don't think I could ever forgive myself if I didn't. Now, it may not have the ending that I plan, for lack of patience on my part. Or I may just find myself disgusted with what I've written so far. This could be quite long though if I do go for my original stray thought conception. Whew, just makes me tired thinking about it.  
  
Yavie Aelinel – Breath! Breath! Don't go purple next. Blue is a nice shade. ****_


	6. The Elf and the Gathering of the Seven

**Right Side of Justice  
**_Chapter 6 – The Elf and the Gathering of the Seven  
  
_"'Legolas'?" echoed Scott, eyebrows rocketing hairline-ward. "So that's your last name, eh? I'll be, that's an odd name."  
  
"Mateo is not my true name."  
  
Poor Scott stood confused, a muddled expression quirking his features. Bryne looked from one to the other, understanding Scott's confusion no more than Scott understood Mateo's – Legolas' – identity change. "Not your true name? Dern blasted, what do mean 'not your true name'? 'Course it's your true name, you said it was!"  
  
Legolas frowned, meeting Scott's frustrated gaze. "I could not tell you at the time. I probably should not have told you now, but what is said, has been said, and will remain said."   
  
"But you could tell him right off?" Scott threw a flippant gesture toward Bryne.   
  
"You take it the wrong way, Scott."  
  
"Really?" The younger huffed sarcastically, his jaw audibly popping as it tended to do when he was rating higher on the disgruntlement scale.    
  
The newcomer's eyebrows dipped down to meet their counterpart. "Have I missed something here?"  
  
An ill-tempered stomp caught up a cloud of red dust. "Stay out of it, Bryne. This is a family matter and you are _not _part of this family."  
  
Honestly, Legolas hadn't expected quite this sort of aftermath. A_ family_ matter? "Scott, I should, for your own dignity, inform that you are not making a shred of sense. "   
  
"Sense ain't got nothing to do with it!" the jaw continued to pop. "Frankly, I'm feeling a bit put out here. You go and tell this unshaven hulk right off the wagon, but I, your first outlaw partner, don't get told until you've confided in him first? That's not supposed to smart a bit?"   
  
Legolas leveled him with a severe look, "We will continue this later, Scott. Now is not the time."   
  
With one last complaint of his jaw, Scott settled for the silent treatment.  
  
"Now," Legolas turned back to the other man. "What may I call you?"  
  
Only Legolas had noticed that during this exchange, Benito was the only one lacking a shocked expression.  
  
---  
  
The comfort of hearing one's own name is a pleasure taken for granted. How foolish had Legolas felt in the emptiness of solitude when to no one but a horse he spoke his name aloud.  Deep in his subconscious he admitted that he was afraid of forgetting, of losing that part of himself to the past. Maybe forgetting would have been for the best; maybe it was cowardly and weak of him to cling to what was gone. But frankly, he would prefer to remain a coward than lose his soul to the future. History was not always a thing to be forgotten.   
  
Behind him, a chorus of snores rose not quite in harmony. Legolas sat a stone's throw away with his back to the sleepers and eyes cast to the bejeweled Texas night sky. Though he had studied this sky a myriad of times before, knew its dance by heart, he still missed that other sky: Arda's expanse.  
  
He accepted the lonesome ache that took on a keen edge. How many years had passed since he'd been in the welcome presence of one of his race? Where were the others that had followed the call to come hither? A small measure of comfort was allotted to him when he assured himself that he was not thoroughly alone in this world of Men. _I wonder if they have all had so strange a time.   
  
_  
He heard a soft grunt and a muttered oath behind him as Scott rolled from beneath the comfort of his blanket and over an unwelcoming rock. "It is not the rock's fault," he admonished the blurry eyed Man that had risen from his rude awakening.   
  
"Well it could have picked a better spot." Scott hobbled over, rubbing his shoulder. "Not as if we're crowded out here." He made a sweeping gesture to the night shrouded landscape. Yawning, he hunched down beside Legolas on an offender-less patch of earth.  
  
They sat in companionable silence. Legolas felt Scott's eyes on him after a few moments passed. He'd have to have this discussion at one point or another, now was as good a time as any. "You still do not understand, do you?"    
  
Scott hastily averted his eyes, taking to poking at the dirt haphazardly. "What, about your favoritism?"  
  
"Scott," Legolas said sharply, keeping his tone low so not stir the sleepers, "favoritism has no place in this matter. I trust you. Implicitly."

"They why didn't you tell me?"  
  
Legolas' felt a choking sense of frustration fasten about his throat. "Because one can bear only so many secrets," he blurted out, much more to his surprise than Scott's.   
  
"What secrets?" Scott pressed.  
  
Legolas withdrew, clenching his jaw. "Secrets that must be kept."   
  
"Curse you, Mateo…Leglass… Legolas whoever you are! We're friends. Sure, we only just met, but some things just happen," he hissed, forcing Legolas' attention. "Friends don't keep secrets from each other."  
  
"Sometimes they do. Sometimes they have to, Scott." Checking his emotions, he schooled his tone. "If it makes you feel any better, Benito has known nothing of it until you heard. If anyone deserves my candor, he does. It was not a matter of favoritism," he repeated.   
  
Scott sat back on his heels. There was one jaw pop then he turned a determined look upon Legolas. Such a look might have been given by the eyes of an elf. "Tell me the truth. I don't mean just part of it. All of it."   
  
"I cannot."  
  
"Tell me who you are."  
  
"I cannot."  
  
"I can't work with you if I don't know you."  
  
Legolas stood, having half a mind to walk away. If he stayed, he feared all would be revealed. "If you feel as such, then perhaps our 'partnership' as you call it, will not work."   
  
Scott reached out, clamping a hand on Legolas' shoulder. "You'd walk away from all those people then? You'd just let those thieves and murderers go about their way? You'd give in just because you can't own up, or face whatever happened before I met you?"  
  
In turmoil, Legolas rooted his feet, trying to keep his breathing even. Why couldn't he confide? What harm would come of it? If Scott and Benito – for if he told the other, then it would be only right to tell Benito – were the only ones who ever knew, then what could it hurt?  
  
Scott, though not the most perceptive of mind, seemed to recognize this underlying battle of wills and pressed to his advantage. "Tell me, it's eating you from the inside out. You said it yourself, there's only so many secrets one can keep." He shook Legolas. "Tell me!" his command became an entreaty.   
  
"Scott, there would be no way you could understand. When this world was created, your race was never meant to know."  
  
Legolas caught his slip too late.  
  
"My race?" echoed Scott, regarding Legolas queerly. The latter remained silent. "Mateo, what are you talking about, 'my race'?  
  
"I have said too much." Legolas turned, resolved to leave this time to save what little there was left to salvage. "Put it from your mind and go back to sleep. We will have to much to do in the morning."  
  
Scott didn't take the bait. "I have a strange feeling this has something to do with the dry old way you talk; it's way too proper for where you live."   
  
"I told you to leave it be. All that has changed is my name, and if your pride is hindering you from acknowledging it, it is of no consequence to me."  
  
Seething visibly, Scott released him. His hand dropped to his side limply. "You are stubborn. Worse than that hell-spawned mule I had.  
  
"Then that is one regard in which we are very much alike," Legolas retorted. He was acting immature and puerile, but an awful rebellion rioted within him _not _to suppress the unbecoming behavior.  Still, the old Legolas triumphed and he sought to mend what he could. "Ai, Scott," he recanted, "I am sorry. I beg you to understand. If I had known such consternation would result, then I would have held my tongue."  
  
Scott sagged back into a crouch, scrubbing his hand across his brow. "I wish I could understand," he grunted. "Give me something to go on, Ma--Legolas. Maybe I could understand."  
  
Legolas dipped his head towards his chest, the ache of loneliness and despair returning with fierce vengeance even though he was not in body alone. It was another matter for his heart.  
  
"I'll start making wild guesses then," Scott sighed. "Are you a ghost? Maybe some spiritual being of the past who has come to help us poor, pathetic mortals?"  
  
"Stop this, Scott. You don't know what you're saying."  
  
"Then am I right? That would explain your unnatural ability to attract trouble and come out unscathed."  
  
"I can die nearly just the same as you can." _Right, Legolas. When will you learn? _  
  
His hope that Scott would remain oblivious to the telling word was in vain. "'Nearly'? What does 'nearly' mean? Speak up Man, stop dropping hints and start giving me answers!"  
  
"I am not a man."  
  
A sickened look greened Scott's face. He blanched. "Not a man? Then…then you're a…woman?" Near hysterics set in. Legolas could not hold it against him; after all, if one was not a man, one was a woman – according to the teachings of the 'human' race.  
  
"No, no!" Legolas hastily corrected._ Ai_, he moaned inwardly, _Hold your tongue! _ "Just, oh do just go back to sleep."   
  
"How can I when you play poker with words? Just say it. You want to, and I see no harm in confessing."  
  
Legolas lowered himself to eyelevel with the man, a comfortable, soul soothing resolve settling over his tumultuous spirit. "You do have a certain likeness to Estel," he murmured, taking interest in sand and stone. He acknowledged Scott's silent inquiry, "Estel, Aragorn Elessar, is – was a man that embodied all noble attributes, and above all was a friend worthy of every price of friendship. He was a servant king."  
  
This seemed an extreme paradox to Scott's reasoning. "A king I could reckon with, probably some English fellow – but a _servant _ king? Kings are pious chaps, stuffy and fat most likely."  
  
"Oh, not English, Númenorian by descent." As to be expected, this confounded Scott's confusion to deeper levels. "Númenor was once an isle, the kingdom of the Dúnedain, it was from the blood of those that peopled that isle that he came. Ai, but I see by your face this makes no more sense to you than before. But what else should I expect? The beginning is too lofty a place to begin, but I should start perhaps at the end."  
  
  
Not until after the stars began to dim and sky show a hinting of morning did Scott retire, silent, for once left speechless; mind swollen with information he had yet to wrap his understanding around.    
  
Legolas turned his eyes again to the lightening sky. He could still see them, the stars dancing into the unseen night beyond this universe's atmosphere, high above all that was dusty and worn threadbare. Now, weariness had fled, conquered by a solemn effervescence. He was with them in heart, freed from a fettering secret.   
  
One man, one mortal knew who he was - who he _really_ was.   
  
"Morning's coming on," said a voice at his shoulder, Benito yawned and scratched his bristled chin.   
  
"Did a rock assault you as well?" Legolas queried, "Or will this simply be my night – excuse me - morning for emotional confrontations?"  
  
"Mayhap, but not from me."   
  
Legolas felt a wall between them, real or unreal. He hated it, with a vengeance. There seemed only one way to mend what could be lost. It was worth another long discourse. "I should explain – "  
  
He got no further. "No, you shan't. There is no farce between you and I, never has been." Benito said it so firmly, Legolas couldn't fathom disbelieving him. He went on, "I've known you too long not to _know _you. Your name may be different, heck, even your whole background, but _you _are still the same. A name makes no difference to me, whether five letters, or twenty. I'll still call you a friend."  
  
Legolas would not have been ashamed to admit that his throat constricted and moisture touched his eyes. He was sure that never had he done any deed worthy of such understanding, nor had it been any virtue of his own that won the friendship of Gimli or Aragorn. Grace, to be sure.   
  
"Now, what do you say to scrounging up something decent to eat, I feel a turn in the wind and if we must do anything on the run, better to do so on a full stomach."  
  
Legolas was now the one to follow speechlessly.   
  
---  
  
Benito had been right about the change in the winds. Literally, it blew not from the coast, but from inland, turning the air dry and the sky hazy with dust. The company remained a while longer in the shelter of the mountain, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.   
  
Scott was especially quiet that morning, his eyes downcast and his normal zeal absent. When the others' backs were turned, he could be caught watching Legolas, studying him. Legolas too watched Scott. Even when dissension arose between the company, Scott remained oddly silent.   
  
They had gathered, all save one who kept watch, to discuss just what they were to do. Unfortunately, not all present were so level headed as Legolas. The differing opinions were stark in contrast. One side opted for stealth, intercepting any attempt made by Godard to build his mystery herd. The other called for a frontal assault, assassination at best. Of the first opinion, Legolas, Benito and Bryne advocated. Of the other, the Irish immigrant Braden, the farmer Harold Crock, and somewhat reluctantly, the old campaigner Ruben, sided. Scott still sat silent, eyes upon Legolas.   
  
Bryne was blatantly disgruntled with his fellows. "How many of us do you see? Count: One, two, three…Seven of us - and how many of them? We can't even say. We don't even have a generous sponsor such as they do," he added sarcastically. "We might be able to blow a few off before we go down in a pointless blaze of fire. Besides, we have the townspeople on our side and they don't _want _to sell. We can use that against Godard as a trap."  
  
The three were unsure as to how to defend their position, unsure whether it was even worth defending now. The Irishman, Braden, tapped his red-bearded chin. "I can't side much for the idea of a gorilla band, too shifty, too prone to falling apart. Let's get it done and over with, dead or alive."  
  
Benito finished off a suspiciously gelatinous coffee. "Doesn't work like that dear fellow. Nothing permanent is ever quick to accomplish. Takes time and effort."  
  
"The old man's right," Bryne concurred, eyeing the last dredges of coffee. "If I'm to die, which I don't particularly mind, then I won't go having it recorded as some noble attempt that ended in failure."   
  
Braden, the advocate of the three, looked ready to break but with a look to his fellows, he shook his head. "Nay, we can do this, especially if Legolas can live up to his reputation."   
  
Legolas ran a hand through Toril's mane rhythmically. "I'm not invincible, though I have seen many miraculous feats in my time of small numbers against large. But it is irrational to think that we could have any lasting effect with such a strike, even if we were to crush the immediate threat. No, through a show of foolish bravery, we would destroy our purpose. We must be as a growing nuisance, preventing the continuation of _their _purpose. We're simply not strong enough to start an all out rebellion. Someday, perhaps, but not now."  
  
Braden, Crock and Ruben were silent, weighing the opposing defense. "Sounds awfully complicated to me," he grunted doubtfully.   
  
Crock the farmer looked to Scott, "Well what about you? Where do you stand on this?"   
  
A look passed between Scott and Legolas. Then the man turned aside and looked to Crock. "I side with Legolas."  
  
Again, their eyes met. Legolas tipped his head to Scott in acknowledgment, relieved immensely that reason had not fled because of the self-built barrier between Scott and himself. A question remained to be answered: which of them had built it?  
  
"Then it's settled," Bryne declared.  
  
Braden was still not convinced, "But how will we know where they be?"   
  
Legolas addressed this concern. "There are only so many homesteads in these parts. Many have already been struck. Through a process of elimination and by keeping a close eye on each, then we should be able to know." At least, that was his hope.  
  
"Aye, so we have only to foil him a handful of times, then you reckon they'll leave us be?" Crock wondered hopefully.   
  
"Maybe," Legolas said doubtfully. That would be in the best case, "but even then our goal would not be accomplished. Where would they go - to another town such as Harris to do the same to their farmers and ranchers?"  
  
Crock scoffed, rubbing his beaked nose. "Well, then it'd be their problem, not ours."  
  
The old soldier, Ruben, spoke up next, in his quiet, thoughtful way. "It'd still be our problem, Lad. We men of justice must stick together, defend each other."   
  
Legolas smiled inwardly; here was another man, shunned for his age, when he should be praised for his age-born wisdom. "Even so, I doubt that will come first. More likely, he will turn his wrath on us when he realizes we are more of a nuisance than he first reckoned. One such as Godard is not accustomed to being crossed. I have seen his kind before. There is a larger scheme to be found out, deeper and darker than we realize. Where your motives lay, I cannot determine, but mine are founded in the bringing of justice."  
  
A solemn silence took the seven upon hearing his proclamation.   
  
He bowed his head and turned aside, heart bitter with anger. Toril caught his eye, and the horse leveled him with such a look that he felt if elvish blood might still be endowed in the horses of this world, then Toril's blood must be flooded with that gift. "We will be patient in our actions, and if our motives are right, then we will be triumphant."  
  
---  
  
Their plan, simplistic as it was, would suit their purpose. Seven of them there were and they counted nine scattered homesteads. This left two extra to be guarded.  Legolas and Bryne accepted these added responsibilities.   
  
Each was not to guard the homesteads themselves, but the routes that would be taken to the settlements. Legolas stressed the importance of a wary eye, and to keep out of sight of ranchers and Godard's men alike. The longer they kept their identities unknown, the better for all.   
  
The day was still young, the Sun just starting her last climb in the hazy sky. The wind continued to blow with gradually increasing vehemence. Before the seven riders scattered, there was a fervent handshake all around. In some, nerves ran high.   
  
Scott clasped Legolas' hand, and they looked into each other's faces. Neither seemed to know what to say. Finally, Scott nodded, squeezing the Elf's hand. "You be safe out there. Keep to your own advice and don't go taking them on single-handedly."   
  
Legolas tipped his head, releasing Scott's hand. He settled his hat on his head, tugging the brim into place. "Same goes for you," then quieter, "Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna."  
  
Cocking and eyebrow, Scott gathered Demonia's reins. "And I suppose that means, 'Keep your nose clean, don't sweat in your socks and stay out of the sun'?"  
  
"Not exactly," a smile spread over Legolas' face, relief warming his spirit. There was no spite in Scott's voice, only the tone of a joking friend.   
  
On this note, they parted.

---  
  
In a gentle lope, Toril carried Legolas West, parallel to the town. His path would take him behind a gentle rise, just obscuring his view of Harris, but within view of the rough-cut wagon path leading to the two ranches that lay on neighboring claims.   
  
He had taken this position because it was here he thought it most likely for them to approach next. Both homesteads were relatively prosperous for the region, and between the two they boasted a number of solid cattle horses.   
  
His hope, on which his plan depended, was upon Godard's underhanded cowardice. He would come, as he had on all other occasions, persuasive in voice and congenial in manner. He would make no move but to lay before his prey what sounded a fair exchange. Then if refused, he would take his leave, only to return later in the cover of darkness. The time between his visit and the hit men's coming in the night hopefully would offer a broad enough opening for the seven to reform and make their defense.   
  
Toril broke his gate and halted as they came about the slope, but not without tugging unhappily at the simply made bosal and reins that Legolas had convinced him to don for the look of the thing. He lacked a saddle, which would be much more convincing, but he doubted even he could convince the horse to accept one of _those_. 

As expected, there were the homesteads, quiet and undisturbed. There was always the possibility that Godard would not come to any of the the 'steads today.   
  
Now came the waiting.   
  
---  
  
A few miles east, Scott was just slowing Demonia to a jog. The mare had mellowed to his assumed authority, despite her name.   
  
The Creator, Scott wondered, if there was one, certainly had an odd way of placing rock formations in the most convenient of places. As if from a magnetic force, all the rocks on a barren plain might be piled in one spot. But who was he to question a kind fate.   
  
Hiding Demonia out of site amongst the boulders, he settled himself in a niche where, if need be, he could lower his head and go unseen by unwelcome eyes. He missed his rifle and regretted having to leave it behind in his ransacked apartment. Time had not allotted for its retrieval. With only his colt and a knife, he felt more than a little vulnerable. They were effective, but puny in appearance. Now a set-up like Mateo's…  
  
_It's Legolas, _he corrected. He said it aloud, trying it out for size. Bloody beetles, it didn't sound right. "Leg-olas," he said it again, drawing out the first syllable. No, still wasn't right. "Lego-las," this time he accented the 'o'.   
  
Time passed, and Scott could still be found muttering the unfamiliar name. He couldn't seem to get it right. Eventually, he settled on just slurring the whole word together and hoping he hit somewhere near the mark.   
  
"Legolas. Legolas, Legolas, Legolas, oh scrap it. Why must Elves have such bloody hard names?" Elves. Had he just acknowledged that Mateo, Legolas, was an elf? He still didn't even understand _what_ an elf was. He hadn't even heard the term before last night.   
  
A thoughtful moment passed before he caught himself muttering that dratted name again. "Out of your mind, Scott. You've really ridden over the cliff now – "  
  
That was when he heard hooves, more than one horse coming down what could be loosely called a road. Ducking his head behind the rock before he had a chance to look, he waited for them – whoever them was, though he had a good idea – to pass into sight. The moment came soon enough as the company's dusty following caught up in the dry winds.   
  
Horses lathered and men hunched in their saddles, Godard's entourage swept past. _Always the coward, can't go nowhere without a herd of bodyguards. _  
  
Scott waited until they were well away, then mounted Demonia and sped off in the opposite direction.   
  
---  
  
"You're sure?" quizzed Bryne for the fourth time.   
  
"Yeah, I'm sure," Scott answered also for the fourth time.    
  
Legolas toyed with the make-shift reins. Lacking the forbearance, Toril still had not forgiven him for the disgrace of their presence. "There is still time, the whole night is yet before us. We've been here no more than an hour and the stars have only just come out."  
  
"So in everyday speak, he just said that it's dark and we have some time to twiddle our thumbs."  
  
"Did I ask for your translation, Scott?"   
  
"No, but we're sure beholdin' to him for it," Crock muttered seriously, a spattering of sniggers originating from the general vicinity of Braden and a wry cough from Benito.  
  
Bemused, Legolas stared into the still, deep night darkness. The winds had died, but a film of dust still hung in the atmosphere. That, with the lidded eye of the moon, provided a darkness rivaled only by an eclipse or a cloudy sky. "I won't put a stopper on your humor, but do keep the tone down."   
  
"Oi! The common man could almost understand that!"  
  
The tension had apparently decimated.   
  
  
Another hour passed. Then another followed by two more. Benito's chin was nestled against his chest and a building paroxysm of snores had started again. Without conscious thought, Legolas' elbow nudged the old man's slumped side. While the snoring did cease with a peeved snort, Benito slept on.   
  
"Gar, let's just give it up for tonight," said Crock, voice hushed by the darkness.   
  
"Quit whining," Benito mumbled, coming into half awareness. "Not as if you'd be doing anything more productive anywhere else."  
  
"That's what you think."  
  
"Quiet!" Legolas hissed sharply. The distracting noises ceased, giving place to a thick silence. To the human ear, there was no sound other than the chirp of a lone insect, but to the senses of an elf, hooves were striking earth.  
  
"Is it them?"   
  
Nodding, Legolas bade them follow at a distance. Texas was not the choice state for ambushes, albeit, there were worse regions farther west, not even the occasional rise to break the monotony of the geographical map. Night was their only lair, only the farseeing eyes of an elf might overcome its barrier. Fortunately, the outlaws – and they were most decidedly that - had one such pair of eyes.   
  
There, he saw them, dark forms moving cautiously ahead. Five, no six, on horseback and unaware of their followers. Continuing to gain for a few moments more, Legolas checked Toril's pace, keeping his distance constant. At a beckon, Scott joined him. "You see them now?"  
  
Squinting, Scott followed Legolas' pointing finger. "No, don't know how anyone could see anything – no, wait, I do." Touching his hat, he gave a smart nod, "I'll report straight away to the troops and engage at your command, sir'ah."  
  
Legolas caught Scott's sleeve briefly, fixing him with a stern gaze. "Remember, follow my lead and don't get caught up with them in a firefight if possible. It doesn't matter if we're stronger." He let go. "Now off you go, and keep the fellows down. Last thing we need is some joke cracked, sending one or another off in hysterics."  
  
"Yes mother."  
  
Legolas ignored this.  
  
They spread out, forming a shallow 'u' around the ignorant riders, Legolas at the center. The ranch laid ahead, windows dark and lanterns unlit.   
  
Rifle unslung, nestled against his shoulder, he gave one last look left and right to his companions. He missed his bow, a random thought springing to mind. The rifle was nice enough, certainly longer ranged, abounding in potential. But Legolas, no matter his intellect and even in light of his practical nature, was a romantic. He relished those things beautiful to the senses and while _his _rifle had certain elegance to its unique design (after all, the original model had flaws easily remedied by an elvish mind), the enjoyment of its use no way measured up to that of his bow.   
  
Eyes peered through night's veil, fixing steadily on the ground a few paces before the marauders. His finger squeezed, squeezed, a little more pressure…  
  
What followed was brief, simplistic, and unsettlingly easy. The bullet struck earth. The gun's report shattering the quiet. Three more broke the road's hard dirt, followed by another three, continuing in succession giving just enough time for the other half to reload.   
  
The riders' horses screamed and reared, flight instinct urging them to flee the threat. Stinging bits of rock bit flesh and the men voiced their pain and confusion with curses, fighting their unwieldy mounts. What was going on? This certainly hadn't been planned. Lulled into a sense of security, easy pay after easy raids, they weren't prepared.   
  
While the brutes turned round to fly, Legolas and his fellows broke their 'u' and rejoined opposite their former position. The gunfire persisted, hounding at the rider's heels like angry wasps. 

_  
_Regrouping, they wasted no time in retreating from easy view on the road. _Is that it?_ - was Legolas' first thought.A subconscious role call checked itself off in the back of his mind.  All were accounted for, unscathed, and dirty as ever.   
  
----  
  
A/N: So yes, I fulfilled my promise for a bit of action – at great expense to the chapter, but not too terrible I hope. I've had a dozen of other "Elves through History" plot lines attack me in the past few days, but I'll be struggling to ward them off and channel their zealousness to the next chapter. :P  
  
Little-Tenshi – So glad you've been enjoying the ride. I hope it hasn't dragged you along too badly. :P  
  
Darlin'DarlaDawg – Ah, SoA. Dude, I've been so meaning to post the next few chapters there, really! But as usual – time never allots itself abundantly. Hardly offers enough time to scribble down chapters between rushes.  
  
Yeah, our 'man' Legolas is very suited for his job, me thinks. Look for a gradual change in his speech and mannerisms to be even more 'westernly'.   
  
Tinnuial – Entertained? Joy! Just what I'm aiming for. Hopefully this chapter was entertaining enough to get you to the next update – which I can never guarantee too soon.   
  
Myst – Well, I answered most of your questions in this chapter and maybe left you hanging with less new ones. :P   
  
Yavie Aelinel – Oh, just too many westerns and too many horses and too many hours put into mucking corrals. The latter is a great way to be struck by plot bunnies if ever the need presents itself.   
  
manders1953 – Ai! Do I need to find you some duct tape to keep you in your chair?  *Offers golden, extra strength duct tape*  
  
James8 – Yeah, in that case, just send me some chocolates. No wait, you might have poisoned them. I think I'll go for a review instead…O  
  
Kay – Oh, the joys of servers and internet. But without it, we'd _never _be able to get on at all! Horror! Terror!   
  
Your patience is a role model to all. :P  
  
JastaElf – Heh! That's funny because on another site I got the comment that it made the chapter a bit off beat. Personally, I enjoyed the more narrative style at the beginning, but I'm glad to have some backup.   
  
Well, now that Legolas is a good deal older, he's probably fallen into the 'shifty elder' life crisis. Hmm, I wonder what comes after that? If Elrond is actually still around, wonder what face he's taken on? GAH! Bunnies be gone!  
  
Daw the Minstrel – Well, you were right! Bryne probably things he's some strange foreigner, while Scott can't tell the difference between an elf and a leprechaun. Poor men, so confused.   
  
  



	7. A Liability

**Right Side of Justice**  
_Chapter 7 – "A Liability" _  
  
  
The complication foreseen to spawn from an easy victory was swollen heads and inflated egos.  
  
"You never saw a smoother ambush than that!"  
  
"No sir-y, professional-like I tell you."  
  
"Except for that belch I heard from my right."  
  
Harold Crock, to which this last comment was directed, swung at the speaker's head, knocking the fellow's hat off. "What are you sayin' about belchin'?"  
  
Legolas returned Braden's hat. "That's enough," he admonished, privately noting that a Sunday school class would be less immature. "They had no conception we'd try anything so soon. Next time they'll be more aware."  
  
The horses tethered, all save Toril who dosed on his feet near Legolas' blanket roll, Bryne joined in the harnessing of their band's spirits. "Lower your bloody voices," he ordered sharply, "or we'll find ourselves surrounded in the morning by Godard's folk, each with a bullet in our head."  
  
A sudden hush engulfed their fireless camp. Legolas would have to take a hint from Bryne if ever he had to take care of children again.  
  
---  
  
The next morning brought no bullets in unwelcoming places, only the reawakened breeze from yesterday. Dark yet was the sky but dawn was well on its way.  
  
In amiable silence, Benito and Legolas sat with their backs against the rock face and looking toward the town. Legolas made sure no eyes could pick them out from the rock.  
  
"Are you sure that you will be safe?"  
  
Benito nodded and patted Legolas' arm. "Don't fret a hair on your head, laddy. I can take care of myself. Made ends meet many a year before I got tucked under your mothering wing." His homely face crinkled into a mess of wrinkles. "What could they do to an old, harmless man like me? If confronted with questions on the matter of my consorting with your good self, I can speak honestly: I was kidnapped!"

"And if they ask about last night's attack?"  
  
Knees cracked, reminding Benito of his age as he rose. "My good lad, I did nothing more last night than sit on an old, fat horse and make popping noises."  
  
Legolas walked with him to the line of horses. "Be careful down there." _I won't be there to protect you. _"I need a pair of eyes and ears in the public circle; I can't afford to kidnap another old man."  
  
"Lord, a jest from the impassive face of Mateo!" Benito would have thrown up his arms in amazement, if Legolas had not nudged his horse, sending man and beast careening down the hillside.  
  
Legolas watched them go, uneasiness swelling in his chest. _Bring him back safely._

"Where's the old man off to?" Scott asked through a yawn, trying to cure a bad case of bed-hair by rubbing it furiously.  
  
"It's more likely to fall out that way; try the hat instead."  
  
"Oh, and you _would _know the best ways to have perfect hair."  
  
Legolas' expression prompted Scott to elaborate in a lower, explanatory tone. "Being an elf and all"  
  
"What possibly would make you think being an elf has anything to do with hair?"  
  
Scott settled his hat firmly on his head, then gesticulated at Legolas' head, "Well, for starters, just look at it."  
  
"I'm afraid I don't have a mirror on hand, why don't you do the looking for both of us." Legolas wasn't sure where this conversation was going – if it was going anywhere at all.  
  
"I mean," more gestures and hand flourishes, "it's _shiny._"  
  
Scott had begun his education on the nature of Elves - a tedious, and sometimes painful course. Lesson One: Do not apply feminism to a male, warrior elf.  
  
---  
  
"Where's the old man?" Bryne asked sharply, suspicious of deceit.  
  
Legolas passed him his canteen. The suspicion was unwelcome, there had to be trust to be progress. "Benito has gone to serve as both our eyes and ears in Godard's territory. He'll come back eventually when he deems the time right."  
  
Bryne looked no happier.  
  
"You have no grounds to distrust him," Legolas said sternly.  
  
"I also have no grounds to trust him."  
  
"Do you trust me?"  
  
Bryne stared long and hard at the strange person crouching opposite of him. Did he trust this fellow with the unblinking eyes and quiet voice. He knew nothing of his past, nothing of his nature save what he had observed. He was dangerous, one had only to look at him to know that, lethality practically sparked off his fingers. He had absolutely not reason to trust this one who claimed his name was Legolas.  
  
Yet, looking deeper he found he did, implicitly, and most likely, foolishly. Legolas had all the markings of a cold-blooded killer – and that, he very well may be, Bryne admitted, but he also had all the markings of a character who stuck to his word by death or horror.  
  
"I trust you."  
  
"And I trust Benito, so much so that I would willingly place _your _life in his hands."  
  
Bryne gave a concise nod, uncertainties waning. He understood Legolas' meaning – what he really had said was, "My life is secondary, my comrades' are primary." It was a big trust that he placed on Benito.  
  
"Our great leaders are in conference," Braden interjected, setting foot in their quiet conversing. "Whom do we ambush next? I say we go straight for Godard himself." He laughed brashly, Crock being the only other to join him. Ruben stood by, silent.  
  
A look passed between Legolas and Bryne. _Which one of us has to set him straight, you or I?_ The responsibility fell to Legolas.  
  
This young man was a liability. He was too fiery, too cocky, and too probable to fly off the handle and go solo too soon. He could easily cost them all their lives if a situation like that occurred.  
  
"By all means, attack at will," Legolas said, ice edging his voice. "Your death would be an asset to the rest of us."  
  
"What does that mean?" snapped Braden, advancing an angry step.  
  
"Exactly what I said. With your foolishness and desire to glorify yourself, you would risk our lives as well as your own."  
  
Very few forms of intimidation work on the unwavering hearts of the Eldar, rendering Braden's efforts vain and demeaning only to himself. He stood over Legolas, a hand at his hip and look of rage twisting his face. "You sit there and refuse to even look at me; you are the fool and the coward!"  
  
Legolas still did not raise his eyes. "The fool and coward is the one who cannot take such a taunt without trying to prove the insulter wrong."  
  
Braden's face twisted further, "I'm fed up with your arrogant ways, strutting around without showing fear or emotion. Oh, but you feel it, I know you do. Your scared even now, aren't you?"  
  
No reply from Legolas. Ruben looked edgy, Crock shared in his agitation. Byrne watched, without interference, but a hand slipped to the dirt by his side – as did Scott - fingers in easy reach of his gun.  
  
"Answer! Defend yourself, or do you wait for others to do it for you?" Braden's fingers curled at his side. "Answer!"  
  
No amount of badgering or demanding from Braden's mouth moved Legolas from silence. Not even the barely perceptible _snick _of Braden's weapon leaving its holster brought a flinch. Crock surged forward, mouth open and breathless, Ruben's hand flashed down to his hip, even Bryne wrapped his fingers around the grip of his gun.  
  
"Coward! Get up and fight me if you're not afraid."  
  
Legolas blinked slowly under the shadow of his hat. "Stand down, Braden."  
  
"No, you stand _up_."  
  
"Braden, stand down."  
  
A sweat had broken out over the Irishman's forehead; the hammer drew back on his pistol.  
  
"If you won't stand down, you have to shoot," Legolas finally turned his eyes upward, slowly. "And if you shoot, I _will_ defend myself." Finally, his eyes were fixed upon the Irishman with all their dreadful intensity. Now Braden wished those eyes had never turned on him.  
  
The tables had turned on the Irishman; it was not he who had worked Legolas into a corner, but Legolas who had trapped him. Both courses of action led only to folly.  
  
The Irishman gritted his teeth, his finger squeezing the trigger. "Stand _up._"  
  
"Braden, you fool!" Crock hissed from a safe distance behind the Irishman, "Put the gun down!"  
  
"Why? You heard the things he said as well as I, you think I can just _let _him say those things?"  
  
"If they're true, then sure."  
  
"Enough talking! If he won't stand and face me like a _man, _then he'll be shot like a," he paused momentarily, the word coming not quite as easily as it had before, "coward."  
  
_He's really going to shoot, _grimly thought Bryne's mind; and he was right, or would have been if Legolas had not cracked his forearm across Braden's wrist with such force that the unfortunate's limb went dead numb, both gun and hand falling limp.  
  
On his feet, Legolas spun Braden face first into the rocks, the man's injured limb held firmly at the small of his back. "I'm not a pacifist, Braden, I act when it is in the interest of my friends." Legolas leaned in close, his voice menacing, "Right now," he jerked the arm higher, putting an end to Braden's struggles, "you are not on my 'friend' list."  
  
The man staggered away the moment he was loose, a hateful gleam in his eye, but he said no more about Legolas' supposed cowardice. He turned his back and swore, meeting the eyes of no one as he passed.  
  
Legolas knelt, retrieving the discarded weapon. He extended the grip of the gun to Crock, who stood silent, eyeing him with a reasonable respect and staying at arms length. "Either I have only sped up the inevitable, or he is cured for the duration of his service," Legolas said to Bryne when they were alone, a weary air seeping through the cracks in his cool expression.  
  
"You've done all you can, save killing him," assured Bryne.  
  
"I hope," Legolas said at length, "I hope it does not come to that."  
  
Bryne steered the conversation elsewhere. "Where do we go from here?"  
  
"We continue as we began, biting at them with small, sure bites."  
  
"For how long?"  
  
Bryne heard Legolas sigh, "They can't be out here just to steal a few horsesâ€ Until we find out what they really want." Preemptively, Legolas answered his next question, "And we find out when either Benito informs us, or byâ€other means."  
  
"Hostages," he said with distaste, a dislike for the idea immediately festering.  
  
"Or by the natural progression of events." Legolas shook his head, arms folding, "I'm not a strategist, Bryne, nor a leader. Don't mistake me for one. Plans are a wise thing to meditate on, but one can't be bound by them – even if I could form one solid enough on which we could depend."  
  
_He's an odd bird, that one is, _mused Bryne correctly, but he delved no deeper into his curiosities. "Then bite we will, until there's nothing left to bite."  
  
---  
  
Benito nodded in his rickety chair, looking convincingly like the victimized and displaced old man of which he played the part. His tattered mess of a hat slumped dejectedly over his eyes as he dosed with one ear open to _The Star of Harris' _gossip. He'd been most fortunate – this the seventh day of his residence back in town, and already many a stinging blow had been delt to their opposition.  
  
A foot nudged his leg, Benito opened an eye. "Are you the old man?" his disturber asked.  
  
"There are many old men, _Señor_, and I am one of them."  
  
"But are you the old man that Godard's crowd pulled aside early this week?"  
  
Benito caught himself before he looked up too sharply. "_Si _, I am that unfortunate," he launched into his rehearsed lamentation of his fate, "Unfortunate to be so cruelly used by –"  
  
"Come off it, man," the other hissed, eyes darting nervously about the bar. "I know you're with them - the outlaws I mean."  
  
A twinge of fear numbed any quick response. Should he deny? Run? Acknowledge? "Why would you say that?"  
  
"Because I know Bryne Porter is with them, and he doesn't bring himself so low as to kidnap old men." 

"'Old men', 'old men', all I hear is how aged I am! Respect for elders," Benito harrumphed, "not taught anymore."  
  
"So you are that old man?"  
  
Benito stabbed a finger at his face and gut consecutively, "My brow is wrinkled, and this belly isn't so small as it used to be," he stretched a stiff knee, winced, "neither are the bones too willing. I am _an_ old man. What of it?"  
  
"A stubborn old man too, I reckon."  
  
Benito smiled smugly.  
  
The younger man fidgeted, "Is there somewhere else we can talk?"  
  
"I'm sure. But like you pointed out, I'm old, and these bones don't move without something to entice them."  
  
"If it's money you want, then I've only got – "  
  
Chair creaking in harmony with his joints, Benito stood to his feet and nodded toward the stairs. "I don't want your money youngster, just testin' the waters. I've a room, if you wish to rob me there, at least I'll have a bed to die on."  
  
---  
  
A/N: Major, major, major issue chapter to write. I think I grew a few grey hairs.  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter 6. I'm terribly sorry for making you folks wait so bloody long. :


	8. Those For, Those Against

_For disclaimer, see first chapter.  
_**  
  
Right Side of Justice  
**_Chapter 8 – Those For, Those Against  
  
_

"They're thieves, bloody thieves."  
  
Benito shut the door and waved his visitor toward a chair. "If thieves, then their thievery is condoned by the law makers of this fledgling state."  
  
"Then they're _all _bloody thieves, and we're all blind and crippled cattle in the lion's paw."  
  
Benito took the seat opposite of... "Say, what's your name lad?"  
  
"John Peters; I don't live here in town – good ways out from here, east. But news travels fast. I thought they were only rumors first I heard, y'know the stuff. Then I hear that the Ghost is out and think, 'well, I can stop worrying about any horse killin', anytime you get the Ghost in the story, it's bound to be a tall tale'."  
  
Benito's face shed any levity. "'The Ghost'," he interrupted sharply, "who do you mean by that?"  
  
Peters leaned across the table, Benito thought he detected a slight twitch in his right hand, "Why, don't you know? He's that drifting phantom – words out he's not even human. Kills for pleasure, destroys peaceful towns, never to be caught! There's a reward out from him in some towns, they say." He shook his head, narrowing his eyes at Benito, "You must know of him, if you're the one Bryne told me about."  
  
He was getting more and more uneasy. There were too many gaps that he couldn't fill. "What does all this matter if you say he doesn't exist? His only substance being rumors? One minute he's nothing but a child's nightmare, then the next, he's a thing to be feared by man and child alike."  
  
Peters drew back into his chair and shook his head with a nervous laugh. "I'm doing this very badly."  
  
"Why don't you start over."  
  
"Well, it's simple really. Bryne comes to me about...oh, two and a half weeks ago, and busts through my door sayin', 'John, I've had it. Lawmen or no, they've got no right to take a man's property, to destroy a man's property!' I agreed, of course."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Then he tells me that Harris is in a bad way, just like the rumors I'd been hearing." His elbows found themselves back on the table, "Bryne's always been a quiet man, not seein' much point in losing his head for a passing fancy, so when he looks at me with such anger, I knew something had to be brewing." Peters wagged his head, "Never seen him so riled, but says to me, 'John, what's a man supposed to do but take a stand?'"  
  
"Then you tried to talk him out if it," Benito said, folding his arms.  
  
Peters waved his hands, "No, no. Bryne's also the most sensible man I know. I've always trusted him."  
  
"So what did you say?"  
  
"I said, 'Bryne, old friend, I'm just a man of the earth, like you, what do I know about bravery?' Then I said, 'But I figure, one has to stand for somethin' – somethin' good mind you – and fighting for one's freedom seems as good a stand as any.'" Peters scratched his broad, bristled chin. "He looks at me, nods and then tells me he's goin' out hunting for the Ghost, or Phantom, or whatever you call him – or it. He says, 'He's the best 'round these parts, and with a big lot like them, I'll need someone like him.' But I thought, why would such a monster help a cause like this. Said as much to Bryne. He wouldn't hear it. Seemed to have his heart set on seekin' him out."  
  
Benito bristled inwardly, _'A monster'? Mateo? If only this ignorant man knew how wrong he is. _"Why'd this Bryne come to just tell you this?"  
  
John Peters wagged his head again, "Darned if I know for sure. Bryne's like that, pops out of nowhere at the strangest times just to tell you the sky's blue. Probably hoping I might join him."  
  
"Why didn't you?"  
  
Peters went on the defensive, "Because I have a family,a wife, four children, responsibilities...I couldn't risk their safety at the time!"  
  
Benito's leathery brow furrowed, "What do you mean, 'at the time'?"  
  
"I mean..." Peters stammered, "I mean that was then, and this is now. I've thought it over, talked to Shila, the children, and we all believe that there's more at stake here than just our safety and comfort. Even little Henry – who's four with hair like a mop – told me to 'Go find Uncle Bryne'." There was a new glint in the working man's eyes, a spirit undefeated, "We're willin' to risk it. We're willin' to help any way we can."  
  
There was a change of tone, a good change, if trustworthy. "What do you propose?"  
  
"Shila and I thought you boys might need a place to get away – not many places to hide out here."  
  
"You're offering us your home?"  
  
Peters looked nervous, "Well, not our _home_but the _use _of it."  
  
Benito sunk deeper in his chair. John Peters just didn't look the sort to plot against them, but often, those were the ones that turned out to be the worst. But did they have a choice?  
  
It was a very real issue that Legolas had discussed with him – they couldn't remain where they were. A little crevasse at the top of a hill was no place to hold their camp for any length of time, but where else would they go? The fear that Legolas had instilled in Godard was their only real defense, and that would soon dissipate with frustration.  
  
After long deliberation, Benito nodded, "I will speak to him about it. How long will you be in town?"  
  
"A few days, I'm staying with my brother, Matthew Peters."  
  
"Ah, yes. Good lad. Raises some good stock." Benito rose, closing their informal meeting with his posture.  
  
Chair legs scraped against the floor boards; Peters took his hat in both hands. "Thanks to your outlaws, I reckon. First thing I hear from him when I ride into town is a story about a group of riders that headed off some questionable sorts a number of nights ago. He woke up, heard gunshots, ran outside and saw six or so horsemen rounding up another group of horsemen like cattle and pushin' them back toward town."  
  
"Does your brother know why you're here?" Benito asked sharply. Something sunk in his stomach.  
  
"No, no," Peters assured, "but he'd probably offer you his home too if the idea crossed his mind."  
  
Benito swallowed, relieved to some extent. He cleared the way to the door.  
  
Peters took the hint, hesitated, suddenly looking more anxious than before. His hands clinched the brim of his hat and he shifted from foot to foot. A finger scratched at an eyebrow, "Uh, you said something about talking to 'him' earlier. Now, you meant Bryne when you said that...right?"  
  
People like Peters were painfully predictable. "Nope, I meant our real, live, breathing ghost."  
  
Peters complexion adopted a grey hue.  
  
---  
  
The man that walked into the building Marshall Godard occupied was not noticeably tall or imposing, nor was he any more distinguishable in appearance from the other men on the street. He walked as other men, he acted as other men, but only while in the company of _other _men.  
  
Marshall Godard had the special privilege of not being _another _man. He was the man that _this _man had wasted a week to find. It was privilege that most men, if they had known who the stranger was, would attempt to avoid with zeal.  
  
But very few ever succeeded.  
  
Two slouching men casually blocked Godard's office. They talked of women and alcohol, sharing between them only a half a mind to their job – that being a generous estimate. They swiveled their grudging attention to the stranger as he approached. Shoulders detached from the wall as they placed their bodies between him and the door. "You got an appointment?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
One rapped on the door before slipping inside. Voices were indistinct through the thick wood.  
  
The man was changed when he returned, suspicious, nervous, even afraid. "Go on in."  
  
The stranger didn't spare a 'thank you' as he passed inside.  
  
Godard stood stiffly behind his desk, tension straining his voice. "I wasn't informed of your coming."  
  
The man took a seat preemptively, "I loath formalities."  
  
Godard kept the desk between himself and the stranger. "You could have sent some word."  
  
"What difference would it have made, I still would have come." He paused, stringing out the tension of his presence, "I do hope it wouldn't have made a difference; I'd hate to suspect that you would have to _hide_ something."  
  
"No," Godard snapped hastily, "But I run an ordered operation here, as _you _should well know." He shook a handful of papers, "I keep a schedule."  
  
"As do I; you were next on my list."  
  
The desk creaked as Godard suddenly planted his hands on it, leaning across menacingly – bold only while behind its bulwark. "Don't try and intimidate me Jerome! This is as much my project as it is that desk warming talking head's."  
  
A toothy gap spread across Nathan Jerome's face, an unsettling rendition of a grin. "What is that your hiding behind, Godard?"  
  
Godard subconsciously drew his hands away from the desk top.  
  
"We haven't heard from you in a month. He needs to be kept informed." Jerome folded his arms, his unwelcome gaze was unrelenting.  
  
"The messengers are lazy; you know the system. "  
  
"Yes, I know the system _I _have put in place for you," Jerome countered coolly. "The messengers are not allowed to lag in their delivery."  
  
With the empathy of a cat toying with its already snared prey, Jerome waited out Godard's excuses – excuses which would have taken in one with less information than Jerome. But Jerome had _all _information.  
  
"Are you done, Godard?" Minutes had passed and Godard stood less confident behind his desk. "Now tell me what the cause of the delay is."  
  
"Delay?" Godard repeated. "There was no exact date, only an estimate."  
  
"We've only received a handful of stock."  
  
"You'll get them. Just like I said you would -- "  
  
Jerome froze Godard's forthcoming excuse in his throat with an acutely hostile glare. "This was an easy assignment: Set up shop in some small, but growing township, wrangle some horses, then move on. I don't intend flattery when I say that you're overqualified for this job."  
  
"Don't belittle my work, Nathan Jerome, you puppet hang-man," Godard seethed, "There have been...obstructions beyond my control."  
  
"What obstructions?"  
  
"Small ones."  
  
"Then why aren't you overcoming them faster?"  
  
"I'm handling it. Don't push me."  
  
"What's, '_it_", Godard? What's holding you up?"  
  
Godard swallowed, deflating with a heavy breath as he sank back into his chair. What use was it to hide from Nathan Jerome? How long had Jerome been questioning men like him, politicians, delving for the truth amongst a swampy mess of rhetoric? "There has been a petty little group of scoundrels. They're foiling our...relations with the townspeople. Everywhere we go, they're there."  
  
Jerome's pale eyes narrowed, "They are a resistance?"  
  
"Yes," he ground out. The thought of them set his blood to the fire. "I believe they're led by some young, ranching fellow. Mateo, I think he's called. Something of an unknown in the town – lots of rumors though."  
  
"What sort of rumors?"  
  
"Oh, you know," Godard scoffed, "stuff about blood, gore and villainy."  
  
"And you believe them?"  
  
"Murderer, criminal, maybe – but some think he's a ghost. One little whelp even said she thought he was a fairy!" He gave a terse laugh, "A fairy!"  
  
Jerome didn't find the humor, "Monster or fairy, he's in the way. He and his outlaws. Get rid of them, find enough horses, and then get back to the capitol. He'll be ready."  
  
"It won't be that easy – "  
  
"Make it that easy, Godard. It's your job. He needed the last of the horses 15 days ago." Nathan Jerome stood, looked down at Godard with contempt. "Don't tell me you didn't expect a little rebellion. Did you really expect them to just sit in their rockers and let you take their livelihood?"  
  
Godard didn't answer.  
  
"You really are a fool. His job is to keep the eyes in Austin blind, your job is to supply the goods, and my job, is to make sure you do your job. If you can't handle this responsibility, you will be relieved." Jerome left the door open behind him, brushing past the men outside. He left no bloody threats behind, only his word; and that was quite enough.  
  
---  
  
A/N: So will shorter chapter, and more frequent updates be acceptable? Or shall we still suffer through six month breaks? Grovel  
  
Good new, though! LegolasMuse#(infinity) has informed me of "THE BIG PICTURE". A plot! I see the shreds of a plot!  
  
Daw the Minstrel – Aye, the leaders that don't wish to lead, but to _aid _, are always the best. That's one of Legolas' strengths, though he doesn't know it. Soon we'll see some of Legolas' weakness, though he doesn't know those either. Nee! Spoilers!  
  
JastaElf – Bah, _mortals. _Pathetic. :P Just can't win at a staring contest with an elf. I think you ought to start a new series, "Elf Lessons for a Dumbies" or "Elf Lessons for the Mortal". Please? I'll keep trying to fan the flame of the rabid plot bunnies. Thanks!  
  
EverKitsune – Dance and sing! It's an update. :P Thankee kindly.  
  
Kanaylle – Good good, balance I strive for. However, this one is a bit off balance. No main character! Oh well, just couldn't be helped. Thank you!  
  
BalrogsBreath – Oo! Another dancing reader! Such happy people, these reviewers. Ah well, I suppose you may not be happy if I made them shorter with more updates, huh? Eck. Thanks for the support anyhooo!  
  
Tinnuial – Aye, think of twin Qui-Gon lightsabers melting...stuff. No, wait, that just is a wrong mental image...lightsabers...for...eyeballs...  
  
Cassia – List Mommy! Ah well, you and me both on the review badness. It's not that I don't like reviewing...it just never happens. I'm glad you approve of the twist of genres. :P It's the best of both worlds, I tell ye! Sometimes I feel like I'm cheating somehow. Thanks for the feedback!  
  
Yavie Aelinel – Ha! I bet it could take longer. Want me to prove it? Teases Aw, thanks, so nice of you to say that. Stutters Ah shucks...


	9. One Engagement Symphony

_Note - I'm very sorry for the screwy quotes, I will continue to try and find a way around 's screwy 'editing' system._

**  
Right Side of Justice  
**_Chapter 9: One Engagement Symphony  
_

Benito's mare jogged through the brush, the lone mountain on his right. Anytime now, Mateo would leap out from behind a bush and…

"What do you have for me, old friend?"

The mare gave a start and pivoted her ears sharply in the speaker's direction. Benito mirrored her surprise in human mannerisms. "Do you really wish me dead, Mateo? My heart is not so strong as in my younger days; please do not tax it beyond what it is able."

Mateo laughed, and dropped back to a crouch. There was very little possibility of being seen this far out from any establishment of human life, but caution was rarely foolish.

"We seem to have an ally from out of town. Your name proceeds you, Mateo – what were you up to in the days before I came to shepherd you? You couldn't always have been fighting for independence."

Mateo handed him a skin of water, "An ally, you say?"

Benito received it gladly, "Aye, calls himself 'John Peters'. He gave an excellent sob story."

"That suspicious?"

He bobbed his head, "Oh aye."

"But?"

Benito swiveled an eye down towards Mateo. "But what?"

"Why would you tell me I have an enemy – I know I have enemies – what else about this John Peters situation?"

Benito pushed his heels down in the stirrups, stretching his knees. "Bah, I don't know. He was so guilty, he couldn't be."

"Oh, reverse psychology."

"What?"

"Nevermind." Mateo tapped his lower lip. "What was the story? Condensed please."

"He claims to know Bryne, thinks you're a bloody murderer, and is offering his home for a hide-out."

"Oh, not suspicious at all."

Benito again eyeballed Mateo incredulously. "Was that sarcasm?"

"No! Not at all. It would have been much more suspicious if he had made no suggestions toward my supposed shady nature. Was he very much in doubt of my existence?"

Benito nodded, waiting for Mateo to continue. He had only a vague idea where he was leading him.

Mateo looked pleased. "How does he wish you to make contact with him again?"

"By way of his brother's 'stead. You remember Matthew Peters?"

This time, the corner of Mateo's mouth crinkled in a half conceived frown. "That's not so good."

Benito matched Mateo's expression, though slightly more disgruntled. "Your strategic mind never ceases to muddle mine."

Mateo sat, drawn in and contemplative, and looked as if he would have remained so for a significant time more if not for Benito's intervention. "If that's all, _Commander_, I'll be on my way back."

Distantly, Mateo nodded, delivering his last instructions. "Don't go back immediately. Ride to the outpost. There will be a letter there from your aunt."

This last bit threw Benito completely off the trail of comprehension. "My…aunt? Dear boy, you must sleep, you know as well as I haven't had an aunt for these past –"

"It's only a façade, Benito, " Mateo explained patiently. "You've been in town for far too long to suddenly disappear again for a day. Suspicious, don't you think?"

He cursed his slowing mind, "I see…now. _You're _my aunt, eh?" His mare begrudgingly woke to his prodding.

"I delivered the letter, yes, under the pretense of a messenger. The master there awaits a 'Benito' to fetch a letter from his ailing aunt. You have been expecting it for some time. Eager, you rode ahead to see if it had arrived – or wait for it. In fact, the letter has been there for some days, awaiting the mail carrier for Harris who is sick and has not been hale enough to make the ride. That is your story if anyone should question your sudden departure."

"Sick? I suppose you engineered that convenient happenstance too, didn't you Mateo?"

Mateo only smiled from under the shadow of his hat.

"I suppose you'll be in contact with me concerning Peters?"

Mateo nodded, "I'll speak to Bryne." He lifted a hand, palm out, "Go safely."

There was a softly spoken word, Benito didn't catch it. Something about that gesture struck him as odd.

Something about Mateo struck him as odd. But that was nothing new.

---

"Move? Why? We're invincible!"

Legolas shifted nervously, restless, eyes never stationary. The air was hostile. The wind had returned, moaning between the rocks. Full night had just fallen and lights were being kindled in Harris. The groaning of the wind muted any sound.

"We aren't. We're vulnerable." How he felt it! This 'hideout' was a pile of rocks, visible for miles around. Any minute, any second he expected to hear an unfamiliar hoof or foot upon the shale. Godard must have gathered his wits by now.

Not only did logic point to disaster. Legolas was endowed with the gift of his race, a special sense, an ear attuned to the melody of the Song that had been composed for this new World. Ilúvatar was still the Great Conductor, named by another name, but still the same. Ilúvatar Was, Is, and Will Be.

Legolas had heard the last strains of Middle-earth's song, so many years ago in heat of battle - at the End of that World. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, he had been caught up to the home he'd never seen with his eyes, but always knew he belonged in. It was a home beyond the physical, beyond destruction, beyond chaos and discord.

The Symphony of Middle-earth had ended. The Firstborn, the Secondborn, all the children of Ilúvatar were called back to their Father. Legolas had been among them. Frodo, Aragorn, Elrohir, Galadriel, Gil-Galad, Turin, Beren…all were there.  
All were home.

There was no _time_, only joy – he never knew _when _the Second Song began. He only knew when his part in it began – neither did he know when it would end.

At the end of the Second World?

He was listening to the song of the Second World for the first time, a symphony played only once. But what he heard foreboded a turning tide, foreshadowed a foul turn of events.

---  
A/N: As promised, a short chapter, faster update.

Daw, Jasta, Yavie, EverKitsune, Tinnuial, Raider-K (Thanks for enduring eight chapters all scrunched together!), Jazmin3 Firewing (I may have to put that line in here sometime. :P) – Really appreciate you taking the time to share with me your thoughts and feelings. You guys have to be some of the best reviewers I've had. Hope you enjoyed.


	10. Run

_For disclaimer, see first chapter._

**Right Side of Justice  
_Chapter 10 - Run _**

Finally, the cover of night had descended – time for their day to begin.

Yes, and there were the potential marauders, headed straight for the Acker's farm. Just like clockwork.

A bit too much like clockwork.

If it had been more in his breeding to 'swear under his breath', Legolas would. It wasn't that he didn't know how to swear, but the use of foul words for relieving of anxiety seemed a misuse of language – why not put that pent-up frustration to use by _doing _something productive?

Killing orcs for example.

Unfortunately, most sentient beings didn't follow this elvish logic. No matter how much he had tried, he'd never been able to break Gimli of that obnoxious habit - even when he did suggest "hewing orc necks" in place of a stream of profanity.

Ah, the good old days, with a sword, an axe, and a bow.

"Off we go, Cap'n?" Scott whispered next to him, dragging him back from his reminiscence.

He didn't answer right away, thinking, going through a mental checklist. There'd been an eye on Acker's farm all day, an eye on Harris - nothing out of the ordinary traffic. He looked around - all outlaws present and accounted for. He counted the black shapes riding nearer - ten, more than usual, but not bad odds.

But proverbial what were the bright lights and sirens blaring in his head? Intuition?

Couldn't one farm go unsaved?

"Mat—Legolas, we need to move." Scott persisted, urgent.

No, he couldn't desert the people of Harris now, not if he had a chance to prevent the death of one, or the ruin of a family.

He took a deep breath, the fresh air chilling his lungs. "Go…but if anything happens – don't spare the bullet."

They dispersed, each horse performing to the utmost. _I think Toril has had a chat with his fellow equines. _

---

The posse of ten wasn't supposed to stop, turn, and hold their ground. They weren't supposed to have time to fire at the riders fast approaching.

But they did – and Legolas was not surprised. Toril drove forward, sparing a breath for a warning scream to those of his fellow race. Legolas locked his knees against the pinto's sides and took aim. The man targeted never got a second shot off.

Scott shared the alarm of his non-elven fellows. His mare flinched, her whole body quivering beneath him as hostile gunfire seared towards them. Jerking the reins, Scott instinctively searched for Legolas' silhouette. He and Toril had melded into a black lethal beast of one mind. Together they functioned as only a single body can, each part serving its purpose.

His mare suddenly froze, swung her head toward the gunfire and answered an equine cry. Her hoof struck the ground, and with a warning snort, she bolted after Toril. Scott wasn't the only one at that moment struggling to stay mounted. The horses were doing their part, following the command of their leader; it was up to the men to do theirs.

The horses formed a single line behind Toril, snake-like. Their adversaries had a single horse and rider to aim at, the others effectively obscured. Legolas rode a complicated course, from his lead position inevitably drawing all enemy fire. Toril dodged invisible obstacles randomly.

Legolas' mind played through his old battles. Toril, with more intelligence than even Legolas accredited him, had laid the foundation for a risky attack that Legolas had used a handful of times – each time with success. It began with a single-file line, the commander at the head of the formation. The line would advance toward the enemy, weaving haphazardly, but always in a tight line, never exposing their flank. The faster one advanced, the greater the odds to turn the tide favorably. Right before collision with the enemy, the snake would break apart, swinging out either side of its head – finally opening fire, or engaging the opposition in whatever fashion appropriate at the time.

_To get from point A to point B with in a timely manner with as few casualties as possible_ – that was the attack's essence. There was great risk to the leader at the head of the line – therefore leading to the dissolve of command – but as one wise tactician once told him, "In times of great peril, great risks must be taken". That was a mantra he had held to ever since.

His success rate with this particular maneuver was 100 thus far. However, the dangerous variable remained: whenever he had used it, he had always had fellow elves and their elvish mounts under his command.

Scott, Bryne, Braden, the rest, they were all were familiar with the trade of breaking horses – breaking and riding. Early in Legolas' life, he'd learned the difference between breaking and training, a sharp contrast between someone who taught, and someone who broke. There were those who rode their horses, and those who traveled _with _their horses.

In this time and place, horses were broke, and then men rode them. Horses were the cheapest and quickest form of transportation. Riding seemed to have lost its art.

Once upon a lifetime, Legolas would have paused longer, worried more, and been more unsure of his actions. In a sense, aging had worked backwards on Legolas.

However, he did wish he had a way of verbal communication with his men so that they weren't so in dark as to his impromptu plans. Maybe some day in the future – the inventors were always coming up with new, wild contraptions in their respective caves.

As expected, after a brief, confused lull, all fire was drawn toward the leading rider, Legolas. Toril guided the horses, Legolas did his best to lead the men.

They rode right up into their faces, and broke either direction, guns firing. Controlled mayhem described it best. The men, ally and enemy alike, looked at each other in confusion. As was so common in this life – the slowest to shoot were the losers.

It all happened so fast – the attack, the mad charge, the final firefight, and then…silence. Even the horses stood silent. None were unscathed, but those still breathing would rather their pain over the nothingness of those strewn on the ground.

"We'll be leaving these parts."

Braden looked away from the bloody scene first, "You mean we're gonna run?"

"Yes." The darkness didn't impede Legolas' vision. How he wish it did. Corpses were nothing new to him. This was sterile death compared to what he'd witnessed in lifetimes past. A chilling voice whispered that he would see worse in lifetimes to come.

He didn't even feel the need to look away anymore. It wasn't the blood that made him sick, it his own numbness that turned his stomach.

"Legolas, we can't…" Bryne said, his voice surprisingly soft.

"This territory will make itself our graves. There's no where to hide."

Scott backed his horse, turning away from the scene. "We're in to deep, Mateo, there's no way we can desert this now."

"We're not deserting anyone," he surprised even himself at how quickly he corrected Scott. "We'll come back – but hopefully only after all this is through."

"What do you mean – "

"I think we've riled Mr. Godard enough that he won't let us make a clean slate of things in any town or country on this continent. He will be following shortly."

"Well," said Scott after a moments thought, "we could always try going to live with the China-men."

---  
A/N: Took a while. At least I'm no years older than the last chapter…I suppose I shouldn't mention that I've had this chapter written for some handful of months…

I think I'll make my handy exit now. No need for fruit or vegetables – really! Haha…


	11. Wing It

_For disclaimer, see first chapter._

Right Side of Justice  
_Chapter 11 – Wing It_

When old age arrived, knocking at one's knees, those moments of inactivity became an activity all of its own. Benito was working at perfecting this gentlemen's sport (endeavoring to ignore the significant looks cast at him from across the saloon by John Peters), when a gun pressed against the back of his skull and he was rudely kidnapped.

"Nobody move! He's an old, frail man, but we don't care one bloody flea if we blow his head right off – that's 'cause we're _crazy _men!"

The kidnapper received odd stares from his cohorts.

Peters yelped as he was dragged off his stool by his neck, casting more alarmed looks at Benito. "This one too!" howled the kidnapper, his mask distorting his voice, "We don't care much about his head either!"

Benito was rather offended that everybody seemed to agree with the self-proclaimed 'crazy men' in that they didn't seem to care much about what happened to anybody else's head, save their own. This was their regularly scheduled entertainment venue.

Still, the barkeep preferred to keep four legs on his furniture, "What do you want?"

There was an awkward moment where the vociferous kidnapper looked to his comrades. Most of the people couldn't make out what was said furtively between two members of the gang, but a few swore they heard:

"What _do _we want?"

"I thought you knew."

"I don't! We never decided on that bit!"

"Look here, 'Wild Haired Bill', you're the one that wanted to run this thing – so run it!"

"But I can't run it if I don't know what we're heisting."

"People are starting to stare – just wing it!"

"This is a saloon kidnapping, robbery, thing…People are supposed to stare!"

"I've heard of people screaming, running each other over, throwing kegs of alcohol over each other's heads – but I've never heard of them sniggering in situations like this."

"Well, it's just 'cause –"

"Make something up, or I bloody _will _start blowing some heads off. Starting with yours!"

"But—"

"Beer! We want beer!"

Everybody looked at the new speaker – the tallest of the group and broadest in the shoulders. His stature suggested the sort who could make good on his threats.

The barkeep seemed prepared for these situations. He disappeared below the counter. When came back up, he held a case of rattling bottles. "Take them and go away."

Even before they were gone, normal conversation had recommenced.

On their way out, the outlaws mumbled something about keeping the kidnappers for safe keeping…

---

"What the blazes was _that_?" Bryne whipped off his hat and mask, glaring down at Tyne - who was tapping a bottle thoughtfully.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I thought it went rather well, all in all…"

"'_Crazy men'_? Call yourself whatever you want, but don't drag all of us in with your random proclamations."

Legolas stepped between the two, tugging the scarf of his face. "At least we have what we went for – and then some." He glanced at Peters and Benito, then the crate of alcoholic beverages.

"Yeah, but—"

"Let's just be grateful everybody still has their head," Legolas eyeballed Scott significantly. He moved away, leaving Scott and Bryne chastised.

John Peters was sitting, shoulders hunched, out of the way. He looked up anxiously as Legolas approached. He was looking at Legolas the way people do when they want to look, think they shouldn't look, and are trying their very best not to look like they are looking.

"You're John, I presume?" Legolas tried to sound friendly.

"Yes, and you are who?"

"That's Legolas, or Mateo, or the Blood-thirsty Vampire Man of—" Scott felt the wrath of Legolas' eyes and quickly set to tightening his horse's girth.

"Ignore him," Legolas advised, but by the look on John's face, Scott had already done critical damage.

"_You're _him?" John's eyes widened, shooting to his feet.

Legolas sighed. "If by 'him' you mean a solitary sort, who prefers to keep to himself, who until now has not found it necessary to draw attention – if that is who you mean by 'him', then yes, that is I."

"But all you've ever done is draw attention," exclaimed John, looking Legolas up and down. "We're not even under the Harris jurisdiction and we've heard of you over on the greener side."

"Why is a private person so interesting to the nosey public? Why is my sort such an anomaly? That is one thing I have never fathomed about you huma—people." An old frustration knotted around his throat, almost cutting off the control of his tongue. _Why couldn't humans just leave well enough alone? _Even Aragorn had suffered from that same human curse – poking his nose where it shouldn't, and querying where he shouldn't ask.

"I'm sorry that we had to jostle you a bit, but it was necessary. I only ask one thing – is your offer still open?" Legolas voice was clipped.

John felt as if he was being commanded, not asked. "Well, I suppose that's right…maybe I should ride on ahead and let the Missus know you're coming…see what she has to say…"

"I think your wife will stand by your decision." Legolas smiled a well-practiced, predatoral smile, "I'm sure she'll appreciate your _decisiveness._"

"Yes, yes, I suppose you're right," stammered John, smoothing his frazzled hair with a sweaty palm. "Erm, yes, yes, the invitation is still open…I think."

"Excellent." Legolas shoved a pair of reins into John's clammy hands. "Lead on."

"You mean, _now_?" John looked to Bryne for some kind of support. He received only an unemotional blink. Legolas was still smiling. "Oh, yes, I suppose you do mean now…"

---

A/N: That wasn't such a long wait, was it? This chapter was sort of an interlude – a gathering of thoughts and placement of characters. From the notions bouncing around in my head, Legolas and his outlaws are in for a tough ride that will take us to the end of Part I.

I really appreciate the encouragement on the last chapter. You guys are the best. Really. I've never had such…patient…readers. Sweat drop.

Anybody know how to fix these annoying backward quotes?

Happy belated Thanksgiving, by the way!

…and if I don't get another chapter before Christmas – a very blessed and Merry Christmas to all of you!

But let's hope I get to say that again, ne? I've got notions of a Christmas side-story for Mateo/Legolas, Benito, and Toril…:)

We shall see.

Oh, one more random comment. As a matter of fact, my LJ is an active journal – I'm always thrilled to get a 'hullo'. Um, so what I think I'm trying to say is that I'd love to friendlist my readers – it'll be a great accountability tool… Wince.


	12. Hopeful Melancholy

_For disclaimer, see first chapter_.

**Right Side of Justice**

_Chapter 12 – Hopeful Melancholy_

Desert turned to brushland, brushland met with trees – soon the arid climate was thickening with humidity. It never ceased to amaze Legolas how much the land could change in a few hard days of riding.

The Peters homestead bordered an expanse of forest that spread into the east, with hilly grazing land stretching toward the west. The spackling of leggy shrubs spotted the cattle land. The change of scenery - the green of the old trees, the gold grasses, the tang of the new air – it all brought new life into Legolas' wearying spirit. It gave him fresh hope.

He wasn't the only one that benefited from the change. Toril showed his appreciation for the different vegetation by sampling the varieties of grasses with gusto.

The Peters ranch welcomed them warmly, but with a certain reservation that Legolas could well understand. John introduced his family, who all filed out onto the porch with hands and faces well scrubbed.

"This is my wife, Shila." Shila nodded and smiled tightly, looking Legolas straight in the eye. "… this my eldest daughter, Kate," Kate curtsied a bit too deeply, "…my eldest son, Timothy," the boy ogled the visitors' weapons, "…Maria," Kate tugged on Maria's blond braids, reminding her to shut her unhinged jaw and curtsey, "…and last, but not least, Henry."

The youngest grinned toothlessly and held up three fingers, "I'm fo'!"

Kate translated, "He means he's four."

Scott was pressing his hat against his chest, picking at the brim nervously. He'd been voted to do the introduction since, "Mateo is lousy at making friends with anything but horses" – or so Benito claimed.

"Well, I'm Scott and we're really much obliged to your…er, welcoming generosity. This here is Braden – a hot head of an Irishman, this one is Crock, Harold Crock, a farmer from Harris, and this fellow over here is Ruben – he can't sing for a turkey pie. You folks already know ol' Bryne, and that shady fellow sulking in the corner is Legolas – or Mateo as he's also known to be called. I'm just finding out all sorts of new things about him, such as –"

"Thank you very much for your hospitality," interjected Legolas hastily, "I hope we won't cause you too much inconvenience."

"Well, inconvenience or no – we'll be having supper soon, right Shila? Timothy, go make sure the empty stalls are ready for the extra horses. Henry, go with your brother."

Henry tottered away after his sibling, and the daughters followed their mother back into the house. John motioned the remaining men to follow, "I suppose a tour of the facilities are in order."

John glowed proudly as he led them around the well-kept barn, past his prize pig, around his hen-house, and last, back to the front of the house.

He stretched out an arm and swept his hand through the air. "That, my friends, is Texas." The grassland rolled away, disappearing into the vibrant orange sunset. Breezes played games in the grass and evening birds dipped and dived in the coming dusk. A white moon rose behind them over the trees, and amongst their shadows, the night life began to awake. "This is America."

John shoved his hands in his pockets and breathed deep. "I love this place."

Scott cocked his head, "You mean your ranch?"

"Texas, I love Texas." John spoke, as one who knew a different kind of life. "I love this country."

Ruben, always quiet, nodded solemnly. Even the brash Irishman, Braden, concurred seriously.

Legolas didn't show an opinion either way, but inwardly, he appreciated their appreciation. He'd bled for this state, this country - he along with hundreds of other courageous men.

…And he was prepared to bleed again.

"Well, Shila and the girls ought to have some vittles ready by now," John shrugged off his mood and led them back toward the house.

Lingering a moment, Legolas cast one last glance toward the sunset. A hopeful melancholy – that was the feeling that the sight cast over him. A hopeful melancholy.

---

The next morning brought Legolas riding the lay of the land with Scott, John, and his son, Timothy. They had left bright and early – but not before Shila had set them down to a rousing breakfast. It was the sort of breakfast that could satisfy a king, and keep an army on its feet for a full day of marching. Legolas honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd been a part of such a generous table.

So, well-fed they left their five companions and the children to the bountiful remains. Toril jogged easily ahead, eyes bright and ears pricked. Cresting a hill, Legolas stopped and dismounted. "Have a bite, friend," he patted Toril's neck and turned to face the west.

Somewhere out there, Marshall Godard was planning his next move. No – someone was planning how next to move Marshall Godard.

Godard was a little man in the grander scheme, Legolas knew this. But what the grander scheme was…how often he was reminded that he didn't know what it was! He found it more than a little disturbing that it still evaded him. No doubt when the time was right, all would be revealed.

Would it?

Scott rode up beside him, "How's it look?"

Legolas shrugged, "Decent. From here we have a good vantage point of the farm, and the route from the west. Yes, and that hill to the north, the southern hill, and someone in the trees…"

"Lookouts, you mean?"

Legolas nodded. "Four in all. If we can see them coming, then we'll be pretty well off."

"Sounds like you're expecting an invasion!" Scott's laugh died when he saw Legolas' serious expression.

"Godard isn't a fool – he won't underestimate us again…neither will he lay any bets on his men's individual prowess," he added somewhat dryly. "It will be a show of force – which I'm sure he can muster."

In his minds eye, Scott's previous notion of a handful of enemies multiplied into a horde advancing over the hills, burning and pillaging as they came on…

"Of course it could be worse."

"Could it?" Scott gulped and attempted to erase the image from his mind.

Legolas smiled, and nodded.

A/N: I've got a clear shot to the end of Part 1. It's plotted out, detailed – now it's just waiting to be written. OO

Thank you all for continuing to encourage so faithfully.


End file.
